<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Two wrongs make a right by Vracs</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24026908">Two wrongs make a right</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vracs/pseuds/Vracs'>Vracs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bonnie and Clyde eat your heart out, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Roadtrip Shenanigans, Smut, and all the yearning your little gay heart could want, canon compliant to S3E5, flirting in as many UK cities as possible, season 4???, teaming up to take down the Twelve, two very soft very dumb idiots and a van</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:22:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>82,193</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24026908</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vracs/pseuds/Vracs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Just two morons on a mission to take down the Twelve and get in each other's pants.</p><p>No but seriously, it's a little story of give and take, hard and soft, until they finally meet somewhere in between.</p><p> </p><p>(NSWF ch26)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1498</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1619</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. London</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares into middle distance.</p><p> </p><p>The chatter continues, its sombre, hushed tones falling on deaf ears as she readjusts her seated position. The hard surface of the desk makes her lower back ache. She relishes it.</p><p> </p><p>“Quite unexpected then, I guess?” </p><p> </p><p>The rustle of a plastic bag breaks the blanketed silence and Eve watches Bear grab a handful of Haribo and stuff it in his greedy, oblivious mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Her stomach curls.</p><p> </p><p>“It certainly throws a - spanner in the works,” Carolyn gives a slow, thoughtful nod. She stays rooted between Kenny’s old workspace and Mo, who, to Eve remained wet-behind-the-ears and desperate, despite her best efforts to like him.</p><p> </p><p>Weeks on, Kenny’s belongings still littered the office: stacks of CDs, his computer, a tattered calendar on the wall, a rumpled sweatshirt, his half-empty paper basket, the Rubix cube Eve couldn’t quite look at. </p><p> </p><p>They cling to the corkboard above Carolyn’s head. Wonderfully juvenile things like takeout menus and used ticket stubs, news article snippets on UK’s best fishing spots and private oil rig scandals. Things so bizarrely disconnected, they should make Eve bubble with laughter but only make her ache, dragging her into the memory of Kenny’s texts, his shit taste in music, his arms around her, his straight-to-door late night beer deliveries. </p><p> </p><p>She scrapes her hands through her hair and slumps forward against her knees.</p><p> </p><p>She’d been through this once before. Same city, different office, and that vacant, all-too-familiar feeling riddled with nostalgia as it dug holes inside her chest. She thought she’d be hardened to it by now - a seasoned pro in losing her friends to miscalculations and egomania.  </p><p> </p><p>And yet, here she was again, minus Bill and minus Kenny, the team dwindled to another minus-one.</p><p> </p><p>The pack of Marlboros burns holes in her pocket. Her fingers itch against the laminate surface.</p><p> </p><p>“The next logical step would be to wait for the post mortem, see what comes of it and decide how far to involve forensics.”</p><p> </p><p>Jamie is already up, commanding the whiteboard as he begins to scrawl a vague, half-hearted plan of action.  </p><p> </p><p>The room falls silent.</p><p> </p><p>It fluctuates, oscillating between long stretches of desperate quiet, and the occasional clutching of straws that makes Eve pulse with irritation and a migrainous headache.</p><p> </p><p>“So - reckon the Twelve had in on this too?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah - not one of their own.”</p><p> </p><p>“Natural causes then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Doubtful.”</p><p> </p><p>“Medical records aren’t exactly pristine - fatty liver disease, admission for pancreatitis back in the nineties - Moscow, was it? Borderline diabetic, high blood pressure -”</p><p> </p><p>“So, something like an MI?”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe. Maybe stroke.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve glances to Bear and then Mo, and briefly wonders just how up-to-speed Kenny had managed to bring the team before things went tits up.</p><p> </p><p>Regardless, the back-forth feels like watching toddlers play ping pong, and Eve slides off the desk and stuffs her hands in her pockets.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going for a smoke.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve -”</p><p> </p><p>“The man dropped dead on a train platform. He was fine and then he wasn’t. We’re getting a bloody PM. We need to wait for the PM. I don’t know what the hell else you’re expecting to get out of this but spending time in a frat house, plucking bullshit out of thin air really isn’t how I’d planned my Saturday to go.”</p><p> </p><p>Carolyn calls after her but her mind’s already made up. She’s out of the office in seconds, down the stairs and into the dreary London morning.</p><p> </p><p>The air stinks of sulphur.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls her anorak tight around her, hood up just as the drizzle begins to soak the concrete.</p><p> </p><p>She stares at the parking lot. Stares at the imprint of Kenny, long wiped clean. Stares at the cloud of smoke as she lights up and lets it fill all her empty cracks.</p><p> </p><p>Her fingers buzz with it. She lets herself get lost in the acrid taste of it, the pleasant, clawing suffocation, the stifling scent and the way it floods her visual field until her head’s dropping back against the wall and her eyes are falling shut, and <em> God</em>, she needed this, a break, a small one, to get away, to think, just for a moment -</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck.</em> </p><p> </p><p>The cigarette drops and she snaps to attention.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing here?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stares at her from under an umbrella. Her face is pinched, voice hard against the dirty wind. She wears a camel trench wrapped tight around her, and laced boots that stomp carelessly across the shallow puddles.</p><p> </p><p>As she comes closer, Eve feels her entire body stiffen. She pockets her lighter.</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell are <em> you </em>doing here?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle cocks her head, considering her for a moment. </p><p> </p><p>There are shadows around her tight mouth. Eve expects it to snipe at her, to bite and prod like it always did, but Villanelle only looks at her with glossy, red-rimmed eyes and white knuckles tight around the handle.</p><p> </p><p>Eve sinks - just a little.</p><p> </p><p>“I am here for the meeting.”</p><p> </p><p>She fights not to roll her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“You are not attending?”</p><p> </p><p>“I am.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods slowly.</p><p> </p><p>“I just need to -” </p><p> </p><p>The cigarette lays crumpled by her feet, its hissing embers gone.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle loiters by the back exit, her umbrella snapping shut as she shakes excess water off its folds.</p><p> </p><p>Eve sighs. Swallows. “Listen, I’m sorry about -”</p><p> </p><p>But the heavy fire doors thud shut and Eve’s left out in the cold, wishing she could be in the safety of her own bed, nursing her hangover and her misery alone, for however long it took to feel remotely normal again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>By the time she makes it back upstairs, the conversation's been monopolised by the topic of the Twelve and Konstantin’s prior involvement.</p><p> </p><p>The whiteboard is now mostly black and Jamie has moved to a computer, crowded by Bear and Mo as they analyse the screen.</p><p> </p><p>Eve catches clipped conversation, disjointed snippets on finances and assets and London and Bristol, filtered over the burbling sounds of water draining from the cooler and into her paper cup.</p><p> </p><p>Carolyn and Villanelle talk in hushed tones. </p><p> </p><p>She watches them carefully.</p><p> </p><p>She watches the curve in Villanelle’s shoulders, the downward tilt of her chin. Her blazer hangs loose and lengthy on her. Eve would call it dishevelled except Villanelle could never be, wearing grief like a look in-season.</p><p> </p><p>Still. She’s tired, Eve can tell. Withdrawn. Not herself. </p><p> </p><p>It’s new and unexpected. It fills Eve with skepticism.</p><p> </p><p>She finishes her drink and lets the cup drop into Kenny’s basket.</p><p> </p><p>“What’d I miss?”</p><p> </p><p>Carolyn gives a terse smile. “It seems we’re all a little bit - out of sorts,” her throat bobs above the sharp collar of her silk shirt.</p><p> </p><p>Eve knows it’ll probably be the only crack in her steely composure, the only glimpse at humanity, hurt, even - for the loss of her son, the loss of a colleague turned friend-lover-foe. </p><p> </p><p>The tell is so rare, Eve stares until Carolyn swallows again, until she takes a deep, shaking breath and clicks her pen in finality.</p><p> </p><p>Eve leans against the backrest of Kenny’s work chair. Her eyes fall again to his organised mess and then cautiously to Villanelle, who she longs to rattle in some way, if only for a reaction.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, she drags her gaze to the clock on the wall and tries not to think about her grumbling stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re looking at three weeks for the PM,” Mo finally says over the glow of his phone. He adds it to the whiteboard timeline and looks to Carolyn for the next move.</p><p> </p><p>“Far too long.”</p><p> </p><p>“Kenny had been looking into Bristol - found some dodgy transfers, enormous sums of money all to one account...that kind of thing. No idea if the Twelve had been wiring or completely unrelated. Then again, that lot’s got fingers in all the pies. Alice down the rabbit hole,” Jamie slides away from the desktop and pulls out a stack of post-its. “If Vasiliev’s death shows foul play, we can safely conclude the Twelve wanted him out. We know he had ties to Krueger, maybe push came to shove, Krueger diddled the accounts and got done for it, the burly bastard thought to come clean...bottled it before he could? Nice work, leaving a wife and kid behind.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you think Krueger had something to do with the Bristol accounts?”</p><p> </p><p>Jamie finishes labelling his stickers and puts them up on the whiteboard. The possible trail sits clear against the fluorescent background.</p><p> </p><p>“We get ourselves a Bristol address, we find the root of the problem.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches Bear stick a finger in his mouth, rooting around his gums for residue. Her headache pounds. </p><p> </p><p>“Could be another handler,” he mumbles around a knuckle.</p><p> </p><p>“Or a Keeper,” Mo tries.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle scoffs.</p><p> </p><p>All eyes turn to her. She schools her face and runs her fingers sagely over her chin. “<em>Oh</em>. You are serious.”</p><p> </p><p>When Jamie stares at her with nothing short of contempt, Villanelle begins to bristle. Eve watches it happen fast, eyes turning grey and inaccessible, so suddenly and so completely, it almost leaves her breathless.</p><p> </p><p>“You are an idiot.”</p><p> </p><p>Jamie slowly rolls up the sleeves of his button down and takes up as much room on the chair in the middle of the office as possible.</p><p> </p><p>“Feel free to enlighten us.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pushes off her place just feet away from Eve and saunters forward, hands in the pockets of her trousers, gaze focussed as she rounds in.</p><p> </p><p>She looks like she might swallow him whole.</p><p> </p><p>And then she practically does, bending and thrusting her hand between his legs before he can react, his entire body curling, the only sound the one Bear makes as he chokes and sputters on his gummy sweet.</p><p> </p><p>Eve desperately searches the room and lands on Carolyn, pulse picking up in preparation for fight or flight. </p><p> </p><p>“I would hate to step on your pretty, little ego, but I promise -” Villanelle squeezes and Eve feels her throat turn barren, “- if you put Konstantin or Irina’s name through the shit again, I will make sure the last thing you see is your soul leave your body when I shove your head so far up your ass, your ears ring. Okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve snorts.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t mean to. Maybe it’s the hangover, the fact she missed breakfast again, the fact her period's due.</p><p> </p><p>She tries to muffle the sound with her hand but it’s too late.</p><p> </p><p>Carolyn’s stepping forward to intervene before she can do it herself, thrilled and mortified to watch the confrontation unfold.</p><p> </p><p>“Right, then. I think it’s high time we had a mid-morning break, don't you?”</p><p> </p><p>The tension simmers.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle lets go and readjusts her jacket, expression vacant as she clicks her knuckles and shakes out her sore wrist.</p><p> </p><p>Eve coughs awkwardly. She rises from her seat, dodging Jamie’s look of terror and Villanelle’s gleeful smirk.</p><p> </p><p>“Take five?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, beelining for the communal kitchen in desperate search of caffeine and quiet, the sound of a slamming door punctuating the slow rise of strained whispers that start to fill the office. </p><p> </p><p>Five turns to fifteen and then thirty. </p><p> </p><p>Eve smokes three through the crack of the window.</p><p> </p><p>She drains enough coffee to make her hands shake.</p><p> </p><p>She makes stale toast for herself and then Carolyn, an olive branch of sorts they share over few words while the men work away on the computer.</p><p> </p><p>She’s about to call it a day. She could be wallowing in the wine section of her local grocer's, or in the incessant hammering of the laundrette, or in the stench of pork rind at the kitchen. She could be back in the claustrophobic cocoon of her crummy apartment.</p><p> </p><p>Carolyn sets her coffee down and sniffs.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you should go to Bristol.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck off -” she winces. “And - <em> no </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve -”</p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely not. No. <em>No</em>. Send someone else.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think you realise quite -”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I <em> realise</em>. Of course I <em> fucking realise</em>. Send Villanelle. Send Mo, for Christ’s sake. I’m not getting involved in this shit again, I can’t, I - “ </p><p> </p><p><em> I have a life now. </em> She didn’t. Not even close. But she was trying, and that’s what counted. The chance at a fresh albeit half-hearted start, the opportunity to leave the past in the past and carve out a new path, <em> again</em>, one that was entirely her own.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve been with us since the start.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>So</em>? Get Villanelle to do it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have. She can’t go alone.”</p><p> </p><p>And this is the last straw, Eve thinks, this is the moment she says something smart and cutting to open Carolyn’s eyes and spell out in no uncertain terms, that, following Rome and Paris, Berlin and Poland, and all the disasters in between (her unemployment, failed marriage and subsequent bereavement, decrepit and constantly creaking shoulder to name a few), her and Villanelle did not a successful team make.</p><p> </p><p>The opposite, actually.</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t be serious.”</p><p> </p><p>Carolyn glances to the half-closed kitchen door and tips her chin. “I understand you might have some - reservations,” she says softly, crisply, “about working alongside someone who, quite frankly, Eve, belongs in Broadmoor -”</p><p> </p><p>Eve shakes her head.</p><p> </p><p>“But trust me when I tell you, this would be on record. One hundred percent. You will have a team behind you. Constant communication. Back-up. Whatever you need. I know it’s - unconventional -”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Unconventional</em>,” she bites.</p><p> </p><p>“A trip to Bristol. You’ve done it before. Villanelle will handle the dirty work, of course, and you - you know her best. You understand the way she -” Carolyn waves her hand vaguely.</p><p> </p><p>Eve didn’t understand one bit. </p><p> </p><p>“She trusts you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bull<em> shit.</em>” </p><p> </p><p>“She will protect you.”</p><p> </p><p>“She shot me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Work with her.”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve,” Carolyn sighs. She stretches, feline and exasperated. Eve slams her elbows against the plastic coffee table and jabs her fingers into her eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“You know what happened the last time we went to Bristol?”</p><p> </p><p>Carolyn nods. “I am familiar.”</p><p> </p><p>She pushes against her eyeballs until she sees stars.</p><p> </p><p>“And Rome? She fucking <em> shot </em>me, Carolyn,” she snarls. “Do you want to gloss over that part or - ? Last time I checked, death was a non-negotiable.”</p><p> </p><p>“These things happen.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs, loud and unhinged and pained, chair scraping against the floor as she slides away.</p><p> </p><p>“No. I can’t. I won’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oksana is -” she says gently. The name sits suspended in the space between them. Eve mulls it over in her own mouth and the bitter taste that follows. “Not herself.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh good! That’s perfect then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Konstantin was - they were -”</p><p> </p><p>Eve growls. “I <em> know."</em></p><p> </p><p>“It’s certainly not the first bump in the road -”</p><p> </p><p>“No <em> shit. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“- following the colourful death of her former coach. Certainly not her first taste of betrayal.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares into her empty coffee cup.</p><p> </p><p>The details remained hazy.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t say anything, only gives Carolyn a look of cautious indifference that tells her to go on. </p><p> </p><p>“I have no doubt news spreads fast and you are already up to speed with things but - Dasha had been Oksana’s gymnastics coach in childhood. Former Olympian-turned-assassin. Caused quite a stir in the seventies. Sensational. Her dismount was unparallelled, Eve, it was simply divine -“</p><p> </p><p>“Fucking hell<em>.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“I digress. The two had a somewhat head on collision in Barcelona. As all tit-for-tat things go, Oksana agreed to dip her fingers in the wrong jar for a chance at a promotion. She’s quite the little planner. Jamie traced the missing six million to Dasha with little fanfare, almost certainly to fund her own political agenda Oksana wasn’t exactly thrilled with. And now with Konstantin gone -” Carolyn tips her head side to side, “things are a little fragile.”  </p><p> </p><p><em> Fragile</em>. <em> A little. </em></p><p> </p><p>Eve rolls her eyes. She makes a point of taking the butt of a used cigarette and crushing it into nothing. </p><p> </p><p>“She doesn’t care. Trust me.”</p><p> </p><p>A hand falls on her own. Her first instinct is to jerk. To swipe the ashtray and coffee off the table and tell Carolyn where to shove it. </p><p> </p><p>And then Carolyn’s patting her primly, reluctantly, and finally rising to stand.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you’ll find she does, more than you or I care to realise. Think about it, Eve. This is a serious offer. I have lost a son and a dear friend -"</p><p> </p><p><em> I have lost a husband! </em> Eve's brain screams.</p><p> </p><p>"- I wouldn’t ask you if I thought you unsuitable for the job.”</p><p> </p><p>Something inside Eve falls, warm and heavy. The tentative beginnings of guilt.</p><p> </p><p>Still. The proposition was ludicrous. Downright idiotic.</p><p> </p><p>She’d be stupid and naive to fall for Carolyn’s empty promises again, to have that noose right back around her neck, of her own volition, no less, to agree to a mission with no clear plan, no clear end-point, no protocols or official sign-off, much as Carolyn promised otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>Despite this, Eve hated to admit but the three of them were bound now. Women tethered by loss and grief, things she was too proud to name or assign, especially to Villanelle.</p><p> </p><p>She felt it, though. The all-consuming litter of deaths that seemed to be stacking fast - Bill, Raymond, Gemma, Kenny, Konstantin. Not to mention the more metaphorically-speaking ones, starting with her own and then that of Jess, Elena and other friends she’d lost along the way. </p><p> </p><p>And Niko. Always Niko, at the back of her mind, too sore to think about and too sore not to.</p><p> </p><p><em>Niko. Niko. Niko</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The bile rises before she can stop it. She finds herself dry-heaving, eyes hot and watering, mouth parched against her closed, trembling fist.</p><p> </p><p>She grips the styrofoam cup until it cracks in her hand.</p><p> </p><p>If she were an idealist, this would be the perfect chance at revenge. The trip to Bristol would be short-lived. An extended weekend at most, to extract information they needed, the complete list of Twelve members tucked into her cardigan pocket, ready to be handed over to more capable hands that would finally sever her ties once and for all.</p><p> </p><p>If she were an idealist.</p><p> </p><p>She’s a self-professed masochist though, and that works too, as it turns out, because she's nothing if not good at suffering, self-loathing too, if the mood struck.</p><p> </p><p>She runs the tap. Rinses the ashtray and her face. And slowly makes her way back to the office space, out of sorts but ready to negotiate the quickest solution out of whatever befell her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle waits for her at the end of the day.</p><p> </p><p>Eve had hoped for a quick getaway on the Tube, Deliveroo order already in-basket, cigarette in her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>She’s lit up by the time Villanelle spots her.</p><p> </p><p>“You smoke too much.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve takes a long, greedy drag. </p><p> </p><p>“It is going to kill you.”</p><p> </p><p>She takes another, eyes fixed firmly on Villanelle as she blows smoke across the space between them.</p><p> </p><p>“Finish what you started, then.”</p><p> </p><p>She expects a quip, an infuriating little something flying out of Villanelle’s mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, Villanelle nods complacently and turns her gaze to the lilac sky.</p><p> </p><p>Eve hates her for it.</p><p> </p><p>“Who does Carolyn work for?”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that a bad joke, Eve?”</p><p> </p><p>“Does it look like I’m joking?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes snap back to her. There are deep, bruise-like circles beneath them. They shine, but less than before, dulled by fatigue. </p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t think to ask.</p><p> </p><p>“Who do you think she works for?”</p><p> </p><p>“The Twelve.”</p><p> </p><p>And here, Villanelle finally breaks into a faint echo of amusement, running her tongue over her lips. “Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve huffs. “You’re doing that thing.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle leans against the wall. She props her hand to her hip and her head to the side, irritating.</p><p> </p><p>“What am I doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“That thing - where you -” Eve flounders, “where you pretend you’re better than me. Where you act like an obnoxious little prick.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be grumpy.”</p><p> </p><p>She sucks on her cigarette once, twice. She wants to throw the thing at her, to hold her down and blow smoke at her until she chokes.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle watches her try to convince herself all the ways why that might be a bad idea, and takes pity.</p><p> </p><p>“Carolyn works for herself. You know this. Kenny is dead. She has no loyalty to anybody any more. The Twelve - sure, maybe - before. And now?”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s no evidence the Twelve had anything to do with Kenny’s death. Or Konstantin's, for that matter. Or - <em> Jesus </em> - or my -" she hiccups. "There’s - no evidence there’s anything for us in Bristol. There’s absolutely <em> no </em> evidence Carolyn isn’t screwing with us all - <em> again </em> - just to scratch her own back. It’s all speculation. Bullshit. We’re literally clutching at straws because two of our people are dead and all we have is radio silence. That’s it. We have <em> nothing </em>to work with.” </p><p> </p><p>She stops to catch her breath. Coughs. Avoids the pointed look Villanelle gives her and lights up another.</p><p> </p><p>“Carolyn is an intelligent woman. Her and Konstantin - “</p><p> </p><p>“I know. Konstantin did the rounds, I <em> know </em>-”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve,” Villanelle warns. “Careful.”</p><p> </p><p>She scuffs her shoe against the concrete, tongue pressed into her molar. </p><p> </p><p>“I am going to Bristol. You can join me. Do not feel like you need to. I am doing it myself - no handlers, no keepers, no middle management. I am so sick and tired of being managed, management <em> sucks</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve lets out a tiny, shrivelled scoff despite herself.</p><p> </p><p>“I will have a vehicle ready by Wednesday. Angel station, ten o'clock. I would like it if you came, Eve but - I understand if you won’t. Things have been very bad between us - call it what you like. But this is something I have to do. Not for Carolyn. Not for anybody else.” She gives a small shrug, waiting a moment for Eve’s response before turning to head towards the Underground.</p><p> </p><p>Eve twists her mouth between her fingers, bubbling with nervous energy as her indecision grows.</p><p> </p><p>Days from now, she'd probably find herself at the end of a pointed blade, or the barrel of a gun, or Villanelle’s strong, merciless hands wrapped around her neck if she didn’t return the favour first.</p><p> </p><p>A headbutt maybe. She liked things full-circle, that way. The memory zips through her but she lets it run its course, dead into the ground.</p><p> </p><p>And yet. There was nothing for her here. Nobody to wait for her, to worry about or comfort her, to seek her out or fill her home, her nights, her inbox. </p><p> </p><p>No take-backs. No divorce papers. Nothing to tether her any more.</p><p> </p><p>She’s saying it before she realises, the words too-loud and too-honest in the tempting, sombre twilight. “I have nobody left.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle turns on her heel. The sky has darkened, its silhouette metallic on her cheeks. It makes her look determined and fractured and totally alone. Eve shakes with its resonance.</p><p> </p><p>“You and me both.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hated it? Loved it? Come say hi! @vracs1 on Twitter</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Bristol</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Damn thanks for the overwhelming response!  Wild.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>“Are you serious?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks up at her, back against the door, foot propped up, wrist-deep in a packet of marshmallows.</p><p> </p><p>Her fingers come away sticky. Eve watches her shove them in her mouth and then wipe them on the front of her linen overalls for good measure.</p><p> </p><p>“Good morning, Eve. I slept very well, thank you for asking,” she says flatly, “It is nice to see you so worried about me. I hope you had a big breakfast.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve takes a deep, calming breath.</p><p> </p><p>She could walk away. Nice and easy, the way a mature, dignified adult would.</p><p> </p><p>She could do it right now, turn her back on Villanelle and her obnoxious, the-opposite-of-inconspicuous, entirely unprofessional choice of car hire and Brady Bunch outfit that both appalled and infuriated her.</p><p> </p><p>She could say, <em> thanks but no thanks </em>and dodge the three – probably four – hour journey to Bristol in lunch-time traffic and unrelenting heat; the overnight stay, the stretched silences and passive aggression, the persistent itch for a fight, an argument, a resolution; the unbearable thought of being stuck with a person so oblivious to normal social constructs, so lacking in basic self-awareness and human decency, it made Eve want to tear her hair out.    </p><p>     </p><p>She remembers the last time they did this.</p><p> </p><p>The drive to Forest of Dean had been, for lack of a better word, strained. </p><p> </p><p>They’d sat side by side in the wee hours of the morning, drowned in loud, rattling Urdu as their chauffeur blitzed down the A40. </p><p> </p><p>The lingering press of that blade edge at her sternum had stayed with her the whole way, Villanelle's arm curled to her waist, her mouth red and eyes dangerous to sap her of any adrenaline she'd had left.</p><p> </p><p>She'd felt beside herself with fatigue and exasperation in that car, apprehensive and flustered and teetering on the edge of herself.</p><p> </p><p>Much like she did now.</p><p> </p><p>She stares at the campervan. Baby blue Volkswagen, immaculate, <em> large</em>. </p><p> </p><p>She’d dreamt about one of these as a kid: rose-tinted fantasies of road-trips with friends, campfires and loud laughter, soft music and sunshine - her Big Sur eat-your-heart-out adventure. Back then, Niko had starred front and centre of it all, his smile soft and ready to indulge her every whim.</p><p> </p><p>The thought jars her now. It sits curdled and heavy in the pit of her empty stomach, churning and expanding until she feels it in her chest. She twists the stone of her wedding band inwards and tucks her hands in her armpits.</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t quite pictured this: babysitting an assassin across the dull English south, chain-smoking to the sound of nothing, hurtling towards becoming an accomplice to murder for the second time.</p><p> </p><p>“O-<em> kay </em>,” Villanelle says carefully, wrapping up her food and giving a casual stretch. “Would you like a tour?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve sighs. “No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really? This is a very nice van,” she raises an eyebrow appreciatively, stepping around to the boot to begin a demonstration Eve has little interest in. “Look -” the back door heaves open, “there is a mini fridge – for snacks. We will stop to get more.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve pictures jumping into the driver’s seat and putting the van in reverse at top speed.</p><p> </p><p>“There is also an excellent selection of guns -” Villanelle says seriously, “- do not worry, they are in here,” she taps on the locked metallic storage box, “nice and safe so there is no funny business,” she throws Eve a dark look, as if she'd been the one stuck in hospital for four weeks, battling septic shock and re-learning how to use her arm.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle proceeds to point out the technical equipment: the portable Wi-Fi hotspot, tracking system and GPS, surround sound, laptops, central security system disabler and various other things Eve barely recognised.</p><p> </p><p>She chucks her duffel in the back and shoves her hands in the pockets of her hoodie.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re literally going for a night.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Villanelle shrugs. “<em>Syem raz otmer', odin raz otrezh.”</em></p><p> </p><p>Eve waits for a translation but there is none. Only the slam of the door and a soft <em> come on </em> as Villanelle ducks into the front and the rear lights flicker to life.</p><p> </p><p>Eve drops her head back to stare at the sky.</p><p> </p><p>The sun blisters.</p><p> </p><p>She’d expected the weather to be more metaphorical - what was that word she’d learned in highschool? Pathetic-something. </p><p> </p><p>An astronomical storm to match her mood. The heavens, opening and yawning out a loud, tremoring sigh, and then rain and rain and rain until she saw and heard nothing else.</p><p> </p><p>She finds herself yawning instead, remnants of sleep clinging to her stiff joints. She fires off a vague text to the team, shakes off the haze and drags her feet to the passenger side.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s get this over with so you can get the hell out of my sight.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle doesn't say a word, uncharacteristically quiet as she shoves the gearstick out and slams down the pedal, lurching Eve forward so suddenly, the seatbelt imprint will stay across her chest for days.</p><p> </p><p>She still feels the dull hum of it on her skin an hour later, when they're finally out of the meandering North London streets and onto the motorway, sliding into peak midday traffic.</p><p> </p><p>She watches the queue crawl and wonders how dramatic it would be to hitch a ride with an adjacent car.</p><p> </p><p>The plan had been to arrive just after lunch. To give Jamie and the team the afternoon to suss out a viable address and then spend no more than a couple of hours scoping out the premises for any scraps of useful intel they could get their hands on.</p><p> </p><p>The entire list of the Twelve, if Eve had dumb luck.</p><p> </p><p>Or a warrant for her arrest, if she didn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Either way, she had zero plans of sticking around for whatever came to be expected of Villanelle later. </p><p> </p><p>Whether that meant spending it at the pub or on a park bench instead, she couldn’t quite bring herself to care.</p><p> </p><p>This time tomorrow, she’d be well on the way home and straight into the first chippie that would have her. All of this would be behind her and she would be free, knackered and hopefully drunk.</p><p> </p><p>She lights up a cigarette and rolls down her window.</p><p> </p><p>“This is a no-smoking van,” Villanelle says helpfully over the sound of late morning radio. “See?” she points to the little forbidden sticker plastered across the passenger sun visor.</p><p> </p><p>Eve makes sure to exhale into the windscreen this time, the smoke curling and ricocheting back like a wave.</p><p> </p><p>It puts an ugly grimace on Villanelle's face. She cranks the music right up and shouts, “You can be so<em> annoooying!</em>” just to prove a point.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a petty win but Eve holds onto it, even as traffic picks up and Villanelle, in retaliation, begins to swerve in and out of lanes at top speed like a maniac, her face cast in shadow where the rest is in light, her breathing fast and clipped to make Eve want to puke.</p><p> </p><p>The van sways and speeds in time, sometimes hard and violent to the beat of synthesized drums, and then slower, but barely, during a ballad or interlude. </p><p> </p><p>Eve hadn’t pegged her for an 80s girl, but there it was - an angry, petulant, adult-child commandeering an oversized van and singing off-key to <em> Duran Duran </em> and <em> Blondie </em>. </p><p> </p><p>It made Eve boil in her overheated seat, her zip-up too-thick and too-heavy, desperate to hold her together.</p><p> </p><p>“I know you can sing! I heard you in Rome so quit dicking around.”</p><p> </p><p>It's almost imperceptible but she catches it - the way Villanelle straightens somewhat, preens a little at the off-hand compliment, then, at shutter-speed, switches right back to belting lyrics at the top of her lungs in a way that sends shockwaves through Eve’s brain.</p><p> </p><p>She slumps, kicking her sneakers out against the dash, her muttered <em> dickhead </em>just on the wrong side of quiet.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle fists handful after handful of sweets. She shoves them in her mouth so the song comes out muffled and hoarse on the second chorus, and then yanks on the wheel to send them hurtling right between two lorries.</p><p> </p><p>Eve's stomach flips. </p><p> </p><p>The sweets spill onto the floor and she lets them, twisting her heel into one so it melts and fizzes permanently into the carpet. </p><p> </p><p>She thinks about doing it again - enough to send the dry-cleaning bill sky high when Villanelle drops the van off at the end of the trip. The thing wouldn't survive in one piece. </p><p> </p><p>The thought sends a gleeful little thrill through her but she finds herself tucking her knees up when Villanelle sends an angry glance her way and tells her, "Don't even think about it, I will kill you."</p><p> </p><p>The joke - was it one? - lands flat. It slaps Eve, cool and sharp, right back into her sulk. </p><p> </p><p>They stop twice. At the half-way point, to pick up coffee and water and snacks, just like Villanelle planned.</p><p> </p><p>And then again two hours later, when they’re right on the outskirts of the city and so close to their hotel, Eve itches to shove Villanelle to the back and drive there herself.</p><p> </p><p>She waits in the VW this time. Flicks the hook of the glove compartment over and over.</p><p> </p><p>Remembers Konstantin and how he'd told her off for it, one hand on the vodka and one hand on the wheel, grinning. She swallows hard and tucks him into the back of her mind stubbornly. </p><p> </p><p>Not now, not here.</p><p> </p><p>Bear calls to give her updates on a clearer location - the address of what seemed to be a warehouse and the name of a man, <em> Matthias Van Den Bossche,</em> the target. </p><p> </p><p>She’s just about done verbally shitting all over her experience so far and Villanelle’s crap taste in sweets, when Villanelle reappears, dropping an armful of food beside her as she slides in.</p><p> </p><p>“Call you tonight. And, hey -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle considers her quietly as she slides in, popping the key in the ignition.</p><p> </p><p>“- thanks. For looking out for my ass.”</p><p> </p><p>Bear warns her to stay safe. She has to point out, bitterly, that she’d been through worse, and then he's gone and they’re together again, just the two of them and the sound of Roxette beginning to bleed through the speakers.</p><p> </p><p>Eve glares at her full lap. “This needs to stop. You’re going to piss away the entire budget.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs, shoulders and mouth. She rests her long fingers against the top frame of the wheel, the engine running. </p><p> </p><p>The line of her profile glows amber, silhouetted. Her eyes shine. Her lashes flutter hard to clear the gloss but Eve doesn’t look.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you would be hungry.”</p><p> </p><p>When she doesn’t bother to rifle through, Villanelle crooks an elbow against her open window and winces out into the sun.</p><p> </p><p>“There are sandwiches. And cereal - your Moose friend said you like cereal.”</p><p> </p><p>Roxette plays and plays.</p><p> </p><p>It seemed so melodramatic, mismatched to Eve’s hungry, fed-up mood, but maybe not with Villanelle's, who looks out onto the service station wistfully, lip twitching as it struggles between her teeth.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s Bear.”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve finally looks down. There <em> is </em> cereal. CocoPops and Cheerios in those multi-pack boxes she usually ate three at a time.</p><p> </p><p>And there are sandwiches. A selection. Drinks. Dark chocolate. A punnet of strawberries.</p><p> </p><p>She rips open a BLT and stuffs it in her mouth, the food filling the empty spaces in her throat where a <em> thank you </em> should be. </p><p> </p><p>The song finally fades, punctuated by the harsh click of Villanelle’s seat-belt buckle and the rumble of the engine as they set off. Her knuckles blanch from their grip on the wheel and Eve catches them tremble as they tighten.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you not going to -”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not hungry,” she says softly. She turns the music off.</p><p> </p><p>Eve busies herself with quiet chewing.</p><p> </p><p>Without the radio or Villanelle’s incessant singing to fill the silence, the van suddenly feels claustrophobic and Eve feels off-kilter, stifled and awkward as she struggles to pick between counting the dashed white lines and scrolling aimlessly through her phone.</p><p> </p><p>She realises she'd rather take the petulant back-and-forth squabbling over whatever the hell this sudden melancholic, brooding alternative was.</p><p> </p><p>She stress-eats her way through a can of Pringles, several biscuits and a bottle of Coke, and leaves the strawberries in the space between them but doesn’t offer, unable to get a single read on Villanelle. </p><p> </p><p>In the periphery of her vision, she watches Villanelle scowl at the traffic in boredom and annoyance. She uses the horn liberally and hardly indicates. Gesticulates crudely at almost anyone who cuts her off but especially at obscene male drivers, loud, angry torrents of Russian hurled through the open window.</p><p> </p><p>Konstantin creeps in on her again.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes it happened like an unassuming tide, slow and rolling until she found herself drowning completely, drenched in memories of them together, and then of him and Villanelle, and then of him and Irina - and that’s where it usually gets her, right in the throat, tight and itchy with grief.</p><p> </p><p>The rest of the time he filtered through in violent bursts: the sight of him on the Euston platform, the way he’d collapsed, the panic that had taken over and then something fragile, hopeless, at how small Villanelle had looked then, bent over his body with disbelief and desperation. </p><p> </p><p>She’d wanted to believe it was all for show.</p><p> </p><p>She had believed it, in fact, after spending long days mulling over exactly where Villanelle’s loyalties lay. The crisp memory of her fists wrapped in his coat seemed a facade, a theatrical little gimmick to entertain the masses.</p><p> </p><p>She’d wanted Villanelle in on it. </p><p> </p><p>She grasps at it still, because seeing her like this instead - bleak and tolerable - sits like oil in water and Eve finds herself floundering, clueless what to do with it. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>As it turns out, it’s not an ibis, like she’d expected.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a luxury duplex apartment, plonked in a quiet, gated residence a stone’s throw from the town square. </p><p> </p><p>The entrance floors are marble and the curtains velvet and Eve decides none of it falls anywhere within the government budget. Then again, what they were doing sat so far removed from any official jurisdiction and Villanelle <em> had </em> shot her, so, who was she to complain? </p><p> </p><p>Still, Villanelle had barely said a word to her since their stop and Eve was nothing if not bull-headed.</p><p> </p><p>"Who'd you castrate to afford this?"</p><p> </p><p>The words hover clumsily. </p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn't have time to regret it before she's brushed out of the way, Villanelle's dark mood very much intact as she stomps off back outside to get the rest of their things.</p><p> </p><p>She sulks.</p><p> </p><p>The open plan is beautiful. The hardwood floors glisten, the furniture cosy but simple, all clean, white lines and natural light.</p><p> </p><p>Eve thinks of her own apartment and gives the sofa a big, huffy kick just because she can.</p><p> </p><p>She lingers by the kitchen. Maybe she'd make the most of its gas hobs and gold taps, hand flat against the sleek granite top as she contemplates cooking something later while Villanelle is on the job.</p><p> </p><p>She hears the front door slam.</p><p> </p><p>Who was she kidding? </p><p> </p><p>She'd be down the road at the pub, avoiding all accountability for Villanelle's actions, or in bed, relishing a moment of privacy to binge Netflix and nosedive into a take-out, alone.</p><p> </p><p>She trudges up to the top floor and opens the door to the first bedroom. Looks around for the second, but comes up blank.</p><p> </p><p>She leans against the railing, to shout down.</p><p> </p><p>"Villanelle."</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Eve</em>."</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares over her shoulder at the double bed, then down to Villanelle who's already sprawled on the sofa, logging into the laptop.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Villanelle</em>."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's head snaps up.</p><p> </p><p>She feels the tips of her ears start to burn.</p><p> </p><p>"What the fuck is this?"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle considers her innocently, eyes flicking between her and the screen of her computer.</p><p> </p><p>"It is a bedroom, Eve. That one is a king size, memory foam, ten thousand thread Egyptian cotton. There should be a heated floor and ensuite. <em> Oh</em>. And remote controlled blinds - cool, right?</p><p> </p><p>Eve folds her forearms against the banister and rubs the balls of her palms into her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Being with Villanelle was like playing pinball.</p><p> </p><p>She'd gotten quite good at batting away the sarcasm, the condescension, the rage, her enormous ego, her deflections.</p><p> </p><p>But then there were the silences, unpredictable and prolonged - balls down the drain - and Eve was no closer to knowing what they stood for, nor when to expect them.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle continues to tap away at the keyboard.</p><p> </p><p>Eve's going to throttle her.</p><p> </p><p>She jogs back down the stairs and knots her arms across her chest, waiting.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle blinks. "Do you need something?"</p><p> </p><p>"Villanelle, I swear to God -"</p><p> </p><p>"Oh don't be such a <em> drama queen.</em> You are hilarious with this face," she rearranges her own into something that makes Eve snarl harder. "I will sleep here, okay?" she pats the large, velvet cushion beside her. The couch is huge. "<em>Relax.</em> It was a very last minute reservation."</p><p> </p><p>"You're such a fucking asshole."</p><p> </p><p>"Should I book the Premiere Inn for you? I hear they have a very nice selection of breakfast tea."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, fuck you."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle brushes it off. "There is an email from your Moose colleague."</p><p> </p><p>"Couldn't you have found two singles?"</p><p> </p><p>"I will have to leave before dinner. There is a warehouse party -"</p><p> </p><p>"I <em> know</em>. I <em> said</em>, why didn't you -"</p><p> </p><p>"- later tonight. Your fat friend has sent photos of the men I should find - they are very ugly, by the way - do you want to see?"</p><p> </p><p>Here, she holds up the laptop but Eve doesn't waver. "It will be very easy. One hour. Maybe two. I should be back before midnight but it's okay if you are too tired to wait."</p><p> </p><p>Eve wants to stomp her foot. <em> Fuck,</em> she hated being ignored.</p><p> </p><p>"Are you even listening to me?"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sets her computer aside and props her bare, manicured toes on the glass table. She gives Eve a thoughtful look, then crosses and uncrosses her feet.</p><p> </p><p>"First you don't like my van, then you don't like my apartment. I am starting to think maybe I am not your favourite."</p><p> </p><p>"What the hell is wrong with you?"</p><p> </p><p>"Are you on your period or something?"</p><p> </p><p>"You're the one who drove the entire goddamn way without a word, now you expect me to play house?"</p><p> </p><p>"You're welcome."</p><p> </p><p>"Nice."</p><p> </p><p>"I am. Very."</p><p> </p><p>Eve rounds the sofa and gathers her jacket.</p><p> </p><p>"You know what? Do whatever you want, I couldn't give a shit. It's like talking to a fucking five year old, you give me emotional whiplash."</p><p> </p><p>"Careful how you treat me, Eve."</p><p> </p><p>She scoffs. "Or what? You'll shoot me?"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle clicks her tongue.</p><p> </p><p>"No. I don't make the same mistake twice," she rises from the sofa.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Eve thinks she might have gone too far. She pictures Villanelle striding across the room and choking her into the door, pinning her like she'd done at the fridge or the sink, except this time she'd mean it, this time it would work just fine.</p><p> </p><p>After all, she was dead weight. Her job was to keep things under control, but no way in hell could she actually defend herself, back out if she wanted - do shit, quite frankly - and that made her fume. </p><p> </p><p>She wants to grab the vase by Villanelle's feet and pour its contents all over Villanelle's laptop, her phone, her headphones.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle calmly slips her hands into the pockets of her overalls and tilts her chin towards the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>"Would you like a drink?"</p><p> </p><p>Eve fists her jacket.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>No</em>, I do not <em>want</em> <em>a drink</em>."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle frowns. "So, where are you going then?"</p><p> </p><p>"None of your business."</p><p> </p><p>She rolls her eyes and gives a knowing smile. "We are partners again, Eve. It is my business," she says gently, slowly, like she's talking to a child, "so I can make sure you are safe."</p><p> </p><p>Eve swipes the keys off the stand and lets the razor sharp edge bite into her palm.</p><p> </p><p>"We're not anything. You're not anything to me," she spits as she steps out of the flat, craning her head in one last time. "And I can handle <em> myself</em>, not that you ever gave a fuck."</p><p> </p><p>The door bangs. The sound echoes so hard, Eve feels it in her temples.</p><p> </p><p>She shrugs on her jacket and finds her lighter, her cigarette already half-way gone by the time she's made it out of the building, into the hazy dusk and in search of the hardest liquor money will get her.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>@vracs1 on Twitter</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Bristol</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trying ch3 for the second time! Timestamp fucked up the first.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>The pub’s empty. </p><p> </p><p>It’s all slick, sun-kissed wood and angular chairs that look too obnoxious to be comfortable. </p><p> </p><p>The nooks and crannies sit slicked in coordinated neutrals. </p><p> </p><p>The only thing that doesn’t belong is the ceiling, but it’s what catches Eve’s eye and finally pulls her in. Shards of colourful papier-mâché baubles and glass dangle to light up the space in kaleidoscope fragments.</p><p> </p><p>The name <em>Gallimaufry </em>stares up at her from the crisp menu beneath the bottle.</p><p> </p><p>She finds it funny then, when her bartender tells her that, in old English, it means a bodge-up mixture of leftover ingredients. </p><p> </p><p>Kind of like how she feels.</p><p> </p><p>She’d been out of sorts since the Bitter Pill meeting, fueling herself with caffeine and nicotine to keep herself together.</p><p> </p><p>Even now, the wine doesn’t help. Nor the <em>bangers-and-mash</em>, which, incidentally, are the best she's had in years, served lovingly by attentive staff hell-bent on getting her out of her rut.</p><p> </p><p>She presses her forearms against the cool counter and struggles not to look too miserable when her bartender gives her a sympathetic smile and tops up her drink.</p><p> </p><p>She tries so hard not to let her mind wander to Villanelle, not after an entire day holed up with her, speaking and then not speaking and then clambering over each other for a word in edge-ways. </p><p> </p><p>Not during her starter nor main, which reminds her of Carolyn - and their endless, obscenely British chat about knobs - and then Frank and Bill and Elena and Kenny. (The meal had got the better of her then, and she'd scraped her left-over sausage to the side, covering it in whatever mash she hadn't had the heart to eat).</p><p> </p><p>And finally, not when she lingers over the dessert menu and knows exactly what Villanelle would order (triple chocolate brownie with two scoops of ice-cream, probably, not that it mattered).</p><p> </p><p>But then it’s midnight and Villanelle hasn’t called, hasn’t messaged, and she finds herself hurrying back to the duplex with no dessert and a headache, nightcap cigarette in hand, shielded from the warm, wet wind.</p><p> </p><p>She works hard to pinpoint the feelings that follow:</p><p> </p><p>Mind-numbing frustration, to start. Typical of Villanelle not to touch base, to at least have the courtesy to leave a voicemail, to let her know things were in hand. Wouldn’t be the first.</p><p> </p><p>Residual anger, from the spitefully rough car ride, the single bedroom, the callous, apathetic way Villanelle continued to treat her. </p><p> </p><p>And best for last - she thinks - deep, impenetrable regret, for putting herself in this position to begin with, a gentle twist of the arm but otherwise entirely willing.</p><p> </p><p>Watching her best friend, colleague and husband die, then topping it all off with a bullet at point-blank range had clearly only whet her appetite.</p><p> </p><p>She skips the taxi and tries not to dwell on the quieter moments that seemed to scatter every now and then, like a breath or a comma to make her feel like she's teetering, just on the edge of something but never quite. </p><p> </p><p>These <em>somethings </em>stretched, heavy, careful and fleeting between them, always there and then not, too quick for Eve to grasp and examine under spotlight. </p><p> </p><p>She wanted to. She was desperate and too-eager and too-frightened to take one and hold it in her palm. What if it finally unraveled for her and she no longer liked the look of it? What if she squeezed too tight and cracked its eggshell surface?</p><p> </p><p>It wore her out to think about, always a bone-deep fatigue that hounded her wherever she seemed to go. Always with Villanelle. Always without her.</p><p> </p><p>She makes it back to a quiet apartment.</p><p> </p><p>The lights are off.  She savours it for a second - the peaceful darkness of it, the comforting scent of snuffed candles and something tangier, mouth-watering. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s things litter the coffee table and kitchen. She’d left her mug and laptop on the former, headphones, a book in Russian Eve didn’t understand, her overalls flung across the back of the sofa, a spare t-shirt, strewn socks.</p><p> </p><p>It rings with domesticity, jarring and unwelcome. </p><p> </p><p>Eve lets herself stew, faced with a flat in a state of chaos, with having to clear up the next morning, exhausted and hungover, knowing Villanelle would probably sleep in, sated from a night of torture or murder or whatever the hell she ended up getting up to.</p><p> </p><p>There are unwashed dishes by the sink, remnants of noodle and bits of chicken stuck to vegetable ends.</p><p> </p><p>Eve thinks about tossing them all out the window one by one just to watch them smash. She comes close, she does, but there’s food wrapped up on the kitchen counter and a post-it on its foil cover and she stares for a long time, the handwriting familiar and painful in equal measure.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You are welcome. V x</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s chocolate brownie. Of course it is.</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs, loud and incredulous into the empty space. Irrationally, she wonders whether the olive branch might be poisoned, but half the tray’s empty and she never did get dessert, <em>so</em>.</p><p> </p><p>She shrugs off her waterproof and cuts herself a generous slice before trudging upstairs to get ready for bed, Villanelle's clutter left for the morning.</p><p> </p><p>She goes up with the best intentions - to change into pyjamas, to wash her face and brush her teeth and figure out what she’ll wear the next day. She’d log into her emails and give the team a quick update. She might even check the news.</p><p> </p><p>The brownie’s exceptional though, moorish and gooey, and it tastes even better in a California king that's all for her.</p><p> </p><p>She finishes her last bite and starfishes across the bed blissfully.</p><p> </p><p>The sheets are immaculate.</p><p> </p><p>The temperature’s perfect and <em>Christ</em>, the mattress feels incredible.</p><p> </p><p>She takes a deep breath and gives a big, aching stretch until her back pops.</p><p> </p><p>The tangle of to-do lists and pent up <em>whatever-they-weres </em>swim through her foggy brain. She lets her joints go loose, her breathing slack, passing out effortlessly before her head's hit the pillow.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She jerks awake to the creak of floorboards and the filter of light through the door.</p><p> </p><p>The neurotic, comatose part of her brain wills her to grab a pillow and wallop the intruder, maybe lob the bedside lamp across the room until she hears bone and metal crack.</p><p> </p><p>She’d zonked out on her arms though, and they stay like two dead logs beside her as Villanelle leans over her and then leans away.</p><p> </p><p>“What -”</p><p> </p><p>“You fell asleep with your food,” Villanelle whispers quietly. </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly she's embarrassed and awake. Whatever had been left of her brownie sits smeared across her sheets and zip-up, her plate now on the nightstand as Villanelle dusts off her hands and motions to the bathroom. “I need to -” and then, “sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches her pad over to the ensuite, and finally registers what she’s seeing.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's drenched in blood.</p><p> </p><p>She drips with it, hands smeared crimson - Eve’s pretty sure she’ll wake up to fingerprints all over the covers and bedside table, possibly to the flash of blue lights and police sirens wailing from the courtyard. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle clearly hadn't given her subtlest performance.</p><p> </p><p>The tan leather front of her jacket shines in spatters. Her braid hangs loose, fly-aways small and erratic around her temples and neck.</p><p> </p><p>Instead of fear, or the instinct to run, to distance herself as much as possible from a killer fresh off a scene, Eve feels uncomfortably calm. </p><p> </p><p>She finds herself wondering how long it takes to dry-clean blood from leather, and then from various other materials - a cotton dress, a silk shirt, a sequined blazer, weird and wonderful pieces she knew Villanelle owned.</p><p> </p><p>She looks - Eve isn’t sure, but energised is not the word. The opposite of, actually. </p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t know what she’d expected.</p><p> </p><p>She'd always let her imagination run wild - the image of Villanelle, feral and unhinged, gleaming with pride and sweat and self-accomplishment, ablaze with arrogant amusement. Skipping home to have an ice-cream or a bath.</p><p> </p><p>Not this.</p><p> </p><p>Not this perfunctory, juxtaposed silhouette of a person.</p><p> </p><p>She looks like the Roman version of herself.</p><p> </p><p>She looks like someone who’s taken a life, a young, rattled person with a fragile, distant stare, shoulders lax as she strips off everything down to her underwear and steps out of view.</p><p> </p><p>Eve rolls away. </p><p> </p><p>She hooks her arm across her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>The rush of water hitting tile drones on. Steam curls out to meet the hallway light and Eve watches the two collide. It fills her room with jasmine and heat.</p><p> </p><p>She hardly breathes.</p><p> </p><p>The sheets bunch and fold beneath her chin and she buries her face in her pillow to shut out the sound and the warmth and the overwhelming presence that follows, when the water finally shuts off and Villanelle re-emerges, slow and careful as she scoops the plate off the stand and gathers her clothes.</p><p> </p><p>Only when her door clicks shut does she sigh, flopping onto her back to stare at the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p>Her phone flashes <em>4:17</em>. </p><p> </p><p>In minutes, Villanelle begins to snore, hoarse and resonant, and Eve welcomes it, latching onto its infuriating rumble and the wonderful way it single-handedly reignites that raging undercurrent she’d almost forgotten to miss.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She’s mortified to find herself up last.</p><p> </p><p>In the bright morning light, their late night encounter feels almost like a fever dream. The moment lingers, sparkling like dust, nestled away from the harsh blow of reality in the folded covers.</p><p> </p><p>Eve holds her face under the cool, sobering shower stream but the aching feeling clings, refusing to be rinsed.</p><p> </p><p>She makes herself presentable, strips the bed and lets the scent of coffee lead her downstairs to where Villanelle sits in the kitchen, breakfast spread laid out on the bar.</p><p> </p><p>The apartment’s still a mess, littered with more of Villanelle’s things, the mouth of her North Face holdall gaping with clothes and toiletries at the foot of the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>She dumps her laundry there and readjusts her cardigan.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s quiet. She doesn’t turn to greet her from her place on the stool, though Eve makes her presence known, clearing her throat loudly as she rounds the breakfast bar to grab a cup.</p><p> </p><p>When they spot each other, Eve steels herself for a jab, a gloat, a shit-eating grin.</p><p> </p><p>All she gets is a quiet <em>hello.</em> </p><p> </p><p>She grunts. </p><p> </p><p>The coffee is steaming and industrial-strength, black and bitter and lovely. She takes three big gulps and savours the scorch. She feels it work instantly, filling her up with a buzz she no longer knew how to function without.</p><p> </p><p>She allows herself one tired sigh before picking the chair farthest from the food.</p><p> </p><p>“You should eat,” Villanelle says carefully. “I made waffles.”</p><p> </p><p>“I see that,” she grumbles.</p><p> </p><p>There’s batter splattered all over the stove and kitchen sink, cracked eggs and opened, sagging butter.</p><p> </p><p>She swears not to touch any of it. It wasn’t her mess.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks at her over her mug, tugging at the string of her teabag.</p><p> </p><p>There it was, that silence again, so full and so empty to tie Eve’s stomach in knots. She grabs her cigarettes and turns away towards the balcony doors, wrestling with the latch to let the sunlight in.</p><p> </p><p>It’s tempting, to smoke right over Villanelle’s breakfast, to season her food with ash and anger, for giving her radio silence and then for waking her, for leaving a pig-sty, for turning to shambles everything she touched.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle isn’t playing this morning though, if play was the right word for what they did, which it wasn’t.</p><p> </p><p>She’s shoveling huge, oblivious heaps of food into her mouth and studying her phone in gloomy silence. There's no chit-chat, no showing off, no <em>hey, Eve! Look at this breakfast, better than Michelin! </em>and Eve's left with no choice but to sulk by the balcony, sipping her sour Americano and inhaling an early death.</p><p> </p><p>She watches her temporary neighbourhood come to life: a woman drives away and a man cycles off, the postman comes and goes, children leave for school - mundane clockwork that makes her scoff at her old life and her new normal: run-ins with bratty, broken psychopaths at ungodly hours.</p><p> </p><p>The sooner it was all over, the sooner she could make amends. Back to basics. Back to clockwork.</p><p> </p><p>She lets the butt drop into an empty plant pot and moves back inside.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you get the list?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes snap up.</p><p> </p><p>She looks like a kid caught red-handed, in her sunny yellow pyjamas and pink, cotton robe. Eve just can’t marry it up with the fractured person from the night before. Her hands are clean - not a trace of blood in the creases of her knuckles or the bed of her nails. Her smooth skin glows. Her eyes are tired.</p><p> </p><p>Eve stews, skeptical. She folds her arms.</p><p> </p><p>“What did you do?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a face as she straightens. “I don't know - should I give you the good news first, or the bad news?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>“Here,” Villanelle slides the pot of coffee over.</p><p> </p><p>In another universe, Eve would laugh, would at least be tickled by the gesture, sweet and miscalculated and perfect.</p><p> </p><p>In this universe, she pours herself another mug and sucks a new cigarette.</p><p> </p><p>“The good news. Give me the good news.”</p><p> </p><p>“The good news is -” Villanelle purses her lips together and looks longingly at the covered tray beside the fruit bowl. “There is some brownie left. Don't worry, I will give you the last piece, because I am nice - I know you are grumpy when you are hungry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, Villanelle,” Eve scrapes a hand through her hair and lets her head thud back against the kitchen cupboard as she stares at the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p>She can feel her nerves fizzing inside her temples.</p><p> </p><p>If she’s not careful, they'll slip and slide right out of her control and she’ll unleash, all over the quiet, awkward whatever-this-was Villanelle had been mature enough to prepare.</p><p> </p><p>She wonders when Villanelle might do the same. The stilted back-forth made her nervous, preamble to the nitty-gritty of the friction she craved.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pushes her empty plate away and drums her fingers on the counter top. “Are you ready for the bad news yet?”</p><p> </p><p>“Enlighten me,” she snaps.</p><p> </p><p>“Last night - could have gone worse. Could have gone better.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” she nods seriously. There. That was enough to light her. “Is you, coming home at the ass-crack of dawn, dripping in guts, not the usual then?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle brightens a little, <em>tsking</em>. “<em>Eve. </em>Were you worried about me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope. But nice of you to call.”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em>were</em>. Look at you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don't flatter yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle withdraws. Eve sees it in the tension in her shoulders, the shadow that falls beneath her eyes again. She’s pale. She looks frustrated, angry, hurt? Eve liked her mouthy. And then - </p><p> </p><p>“I don't need to flatter myself. I have other people to do that for me."</p><p> </p><p>A beat.</p><p> </p><p>“I had a little accident.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve needs a walk. She needs to stretch her legs around the block, some solitude, a burst of West-country air to cure her umpteenth hangover. She needs to finish her cigarette. She needs to punch something.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you get the list or not?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle wipes her mouth with a napkin and cringes, callous, shoulders shrugging in an <em>oops.</em></p><p> </p><p>“You’re kidding.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am not good in the clubs, you know this. It is not a healthy environment for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve feels her stomach turn. The nausea slides up in one, clammy tide.</p><p> </p><p>“There were a lot of big, ugly men and the music was very bad, it was <em>stressful</em>, and they were talking, all of the time, talk, talk, business, business,” she rolls her eyes, “<em>boring </em>-”</p><p> </p><p>“We <em>wanted </em>them to talk - <em>fuck </em>- was that not what you went there for?” her voice shakes. It lifts Villanelle from her seat, defensive.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure -”</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell did you do?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle softens. </p><p> </p><p>Eve boils. </p><p> </p><p>"Slip of the hand?”</p><p> </p><p>She thinks of Bill then. He flashes repeatedly in her mind’s eye, strobe-lighting across her brain. She feels it again, the cacophony of sound, the smell of smog, the writhing bodies, the claustrophobia, the nearness and the distance, grasping desperately, reaching, always out-of-reach, always <em>almost</em>.</p><p> </p><p>She puts her fingers in her eyes to blur the image but it loiters, etched to her eyelids. </p><p> </p><p>The room feels off-kilter.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle steps to her.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey - we will figure it out -”</p><p> </p><p>Eve snatches her wrist away from Villanelle’s warm fingers that reach for her.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s nothing to - what the <em>hell </em>is wrong with you!”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve -” </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Don’t</em>,” she side-steps, “don’t touch me, do <em>not </em>-” she dodges, tossing her cigarette into a plate, pushing out into the living room, grateful when Villanelle stays rooted by the fridge, following, but only with her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“I tried to waterboard him first, okay? I’m not an <em>animal</em>, but he kept offering me money,” she calls out over Eve’s muttering. “And sex." <em>Christ</em>, her head is <em>pounding. </em>"He was a wriggler, Eve, I really didn’t have a lot of choice -”</p><p> </p><p>All she can hear is the vague rhythm of Villanelle’s words as she explains how she’d had him in the cubicle, rinsing him for information about Bossche, how his friends had kicked down the door and made her night considerably less fun, how a knife was much quieter than a gun, quick and easy, right across the neck, pop-pop-pop in the chest for good measure - </p><p> </p><p>She’s going to vomit.</p><p> </p><p>The indigestion mixes with grief and burns right through her oesophagus until she feels acid in the back of her throat and she’s running straight for the kitchen sink, shoving Villanelle out of the way a second before her coffee comes all the way back up.</p><p> </p><p>“You are <em>really </em>overreacting,” Villanelle says softly. Eve feels her scoop hair from her face helpfully but she gives a meek swat, eyes watering from both the retching and the humiliation.</p><p> </p><p>“I said, don’t fucking touch me.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s fingers drop and her body-heat with it. </p><p> </p><p>The extra space makes Eve feel crowded, suffocated, scared, with Villanelle no longer in the safe periphery of her vision. She runs the tap and takes breathless, desperate gulps, splashing her face to get her breathing in check.</p><p> </p><p>The world stays blurry around the edges, her vision swimming but focused.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you like it?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grimaces, eyeing the sink. “Which part?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve squares her shoulders. Her jaw aches. “The kill, you dickhead. Did you like it?”</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t get an answer.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t get anything beyond Villanelle’s green eyes on her, cloudier than usual, dull and dreary around the edges just like her mouth, down-turned in the corners. </p><p> </p><p>She barges through it all head-first, even as her throat spasms and her hands twitch. </p><p> </p><p>“Well don’t just fucking stand there! Did you <em>like </em>it - the way it felt, going off the rails? Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”</p><p> </p><p>The words taste wonderfully tart, sharp.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve, you need to -“</p><p> </p><p>“Stabbing someone to death in a nightclub? Is that your favourite? All hands and no guns, so you can really <em>feel </em>it, huh. Feel <em>something </em>- really <em>get in there. </em>Clearly didn’t do it for you the first time! Couldn’t quite get off, right? Bill not enough for you? What was it - the music not quite right? Too many people - not enough? Too quick? Too easy? Wrong country?” </p><p> </p><p>“When are you going to get <em>over </em>that?!”</p><p> </p><p>She’s panting now, dizzy and drunk on her fury.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>God </em>- no, I'm sorry, you're <em>right -</em> should’ve seen it coming!" she scoffs, “You know what they say, second time’s a fucking charm! You really are such a <em>dick</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes change. For a moment, the pupils blow so wide, wet and glistening, Eve hardly sees the iris. She sees her own reflection mirrored back though, haggard and sweating and absolutely derailed.</p><p> </p><p>And then Villanelle blinks and it’s gone, replaced with that hard, glacier gaze that made Eve’s blood run cold. </p><p> </p><p>“And yet. You are here. You could be anywhere. But you are here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Carolyn <em>asked </em>me to be here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did she? Did she bribe you? Threaten you? Hold you at gun-point -” she says pitifully, then sticks her bottom lip out in a pout. “ - too soon?” </p><p> </p><p>Eve wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Gulps. Her shoulder throbs.</p><p> </p><p>“You are a big girl, Eve,” Villanelle shrugs, leaning back against the breakfast bar. “Big enough to wield an axe, or do you forget that part? You are very excellent at playing the victim, but not so good at taking responsibility when it is not convenient for you.”</p><p> </p><p>She grabs fast, shallow breaths, fighting not to lunge, to smack that smug, casual look clean off Villanelle’s face, consequences be damned. And she knew them well, had become very familiar with them on the bus, acutely aware of just how little power she held at any one time, as long as Villanelle was with her.</p><p> </p><p>Her phone rings.</p><p> </p><p>The sound bounces against the granite and Villanelle twists away, unphased as she reaches to pass it over.</p><p> </p><p>Eve snatches it up to her ear.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>What</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve -”</p><p> </p><p>“Shit - sorry. I -” </p><p> </p><p>Adrenaline licks through her, right beneath the surface. She’s completely wired.</p><p> </p><p>“You're fine, pal. Are you alright?"</p><p> </p><p>"Great."</p><p> </p><p>"It’s - listen. Uh - so I have some good news and some bad news.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck's <em>sake</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle overhears because she pushes herself up onto the counter and settles in to listen. </p><p> </p><p>"But - if this is a bad time just now -”</p><p> </p><p>“Go ahead. Your timing could not be more perfect.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Right, um - So - Bossche wasn’t there last night,” Bear says slowly.</p><p> </p><p>Eve throws daggers, watching disgustedly as Villanelle stuffs remnants of breakfast into her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“No kidding.”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle told you?”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s a loose fucking cannon.” </p><p> </p><p>Choppy and unpredictable and exhausting. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sighs dramatically.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, the good news is, we saved her arse, like. We found his place. IP address, postcode, the works.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches Villanelle mouth an infuriating <em>see?, </em>and makes a point of turning away to avoid the rest of her running commentary.</p><p> </p><p>“The bad news - it’s in Bath.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve -”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re on your own. I’ll pass you over.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve - she already - she already knows.”</p><p> </p><p>Exactly how much had she missed? </p><p> </p><p>The thought that Villanelle had gone about her morning planning the next step alone grates and grates as Bear explains it would be a quick trip for them, a little detour on the way back to London, one more lay-over to get their hands on some hardware and let the team do the rest.</p><p> </p><p>He passes her on to Jamie then and she lets his deep, sensible voice take over.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve. Carolyn looked into things. Matthias was a handler, might still be. Probably packed it in to scale up into dirty funding. Look - I’m not saying this as a bribe, although - well, it might be,” he chuckles. “When you’re back, we’ll get you an all expenses spa day, bottomless Prosecco, afternoon tea, the lot. Please, Eve. Get to the house, Villanelle will find what we're after - she already agreed - and get back. No hassle. Clean hands -" he says carefully, "- this time.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve pushes her fingers into the bridge of her nose, rubbing the sides as she squeezes her eyes shut.</p><p> </p><p>“You know, not all women want that, right? You want me done for breaking-and-entering? Just say. You’re a chauvinist.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m a pragmatist,” he laughs.  </p><p> </p><p>“Text me the address.”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle has it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course she does,” Eve bites, hanging up to find Villanelle stacking the empty dishes, ready to wash up.</p><p> </p><p>She pockets her phone and heads upstairs to re-brush her teeth and pack. She takes over an hour, partly to calm down and partly to tick Villanelle off in the pettiest way she knew how. </p><p> </p><p>Still, Villanelle doesn’t hurry her or call on her, lounging on the sofa lazily as she finishes an apple, careless to the juice that covers her chin.</p><p> </p><p>Eve scoffs as she takes the van keys off the coffee table and tosses her bag over her shoulder, cigarette dangling from her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>"That’s disgusting.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks up at her, sucking the core dry and then her fingers in earnest. “So is <em>that</em>,” she gestures to her own mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Get some self-control.”</p><p> </p><p>“Murder makes me hungry,” she says as she wipes her hands on her sundress and disposes of the fruit. </p><p> </p><p>She jogs to open the door for Eve politely, smiling in a way Eve knows is about to be followed by a sucker-punch. “Plus, you fell asleep with chocolate all over your clothes, Eve. What do you say? My teapot should meet my kettle -”</p><p> </p><p>Yep. </p><p> </p><p>“Bite me,” she mutters, tossing a middle finger as she guns for the driver’s door, entirely unsurprised when Villanelle tosses one right back, setting a perfect precedent for the remainder of their journey.  </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Wanna read something specific in the coming chapters? Tweet me @vracs1</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Bath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Softness, if you squint.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>“What is there for you in London?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve glances to Villanelle, who leans against a column beside her, headphones loose around her neck, audio-guide swinging beneath the open collar of her summer dress as she looks back curiously.</p><p> </p><p>She could almost pass off for nothing more than a starry-eyed tourist - more footfall amongst the ruins, amongst thousands of others, a girl, a face.</p><p> </p><p>Except she’d always been more to Eve, begrudgingly, always so captivating and terrifying and distinct, no crowd could ever undo that.</p><p> </p><p>Eve pockets her map and rubs her face.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that a rhetorical question?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Villanelle's voice drops, serious. “I am just trying to make polite conversation. Do you know what that is, Eve?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s no malice, no argument, just a wounded sort of sting Eve turns her gaze out towards the baths from, just so she doesn't have to tend to it.</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“You seem very excited to go home.”</p><p> </p><p>“Excited,” she huffs.</p><p> </p><p>“No?” Villanelle eyes her carefully. “Okay. Anxious.”</p><p> </p><p>The fog rises from the water, curling and breathing in the mid-afternoon air, the scent thick and sulphurous but not entirely unpleasant. </p><p> </p><p>The copper coins glitter from the basin’s floor. Eve itches to throw one in, too many wishes to settle for just one.</p><p> </p><p>“This isn’t exactly my idea of a dream vacation.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums then. “Yes. You can pretend we are on holiday - if it makes you feel better. We can pretend we are in Rome,” she raises a careful eyebrow, hazel eyes mossy in the humid sun.</p><p> </p><p>There’s that bite there, finally, snapping at the curves of Villanelle’s tongue, and Eve’s dying to snap right back, to gnash and bear her teeth. She should, she <em>would</em>, if her jaw didn't ache so much, her tired mouth, her empty chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Not rushing to relive that at any point." <em>Literally</em>, she thinks.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pushes off the column and glances down to her audio-guide casually. </p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve rolls her eyes just to make herself feel better. Villanelle doesn't catch it.</p><p> </p><p>The place rumbles with throngs of people - families and children and school groups, clambering to see the architecture, the stifling heat of the natural springs, the remnants of a once omnipotent empire where only echoes of it now lay. </p><p> </p><p>It is beautiful - the way old, broken things are. And easy to get distracted by, which Eve appreciates, swallowed by the noise of it, the mayhem. </p><p> </p><p>She wished she’d made more time for this. More time for weekend trips, adventures with family, Niko, with friends, more time exploring and getting lost, instead of working and losing herself entirely. </p><p> </p><p>“This place is very nice at night.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve been?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle unfolds her leaflet to a photograph of the columns in evening light, illuminated by flames.</p><p> </p><p>"Did you know the water is forty-six degrees - cool, huh? It was built for -”</p><p> </p><p>Eve lets Villanelle tell her fact after fact, indulging her curiosity and a long overdue excitement that seemed completely out of and also in-character for her. She follows obediently from artifact to sculpture, still feeling guilty about her outburst that morning, desperate to fill the silence.</p><p> </p><p>With just the two of them together, she finds herself struggling to pick words that aren’t either dripping in anger or about to split and crack. </p><p> </p><p>“See? You are learning, I am learning. Don’t say I don’t teach you anything, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>It wouldn't be the first thing Eve had learned: lying, adultery, habitual murder, abandonment, bone-shattering fear. The list was long.</p><p> </p><p>It made her wonder whether she'd managed to teach Villanelle anything at all in return, but she doesn't ask. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, she lets herself be led inside where the air is cooler, darker, less exposing.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle goes straight for the mosaics like a distracted child, pulling her headphones on to listen.</p><p> </p><p>It’s the first time in two days Eve’s seen her glimmer again, annoyingly playful and cavalier about anything and everything as she touches this and that.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t think she’d miss it, but there it was. </p><p> </p><p>“I know, I am very good at this.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares at the faded mish-mash of colour on the wall and tries to piece things together.</p><p> </p><p>“History?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tours,” Villanelle nods somberly. </p><p> </p><p>Eve snorts. </p><p> </p><p>“No, it is true. There is an excellent one in Whitechapel - I’m sure you have already been - ”</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t. Between cancelled dinner dates and late meetings, working weekends that blurred and eradicated any concept of time, being a tourist in her own city had long ago fallen to the very bottom of her to-do list.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not that she lacked interest. Or intent. </p><p> </p><p>It’s just that somewhere along the way, she’d swapped hobbies for conference calls, outings for work trips, and now that she finally had the opportunity to indulge - in the most unconventional company - she found herself needing to relearn how. </p><p> </p><p>“Jack the Ripper? Very talented. Very professional. A lot of nice facts, but - you know what is my favourite?”</p><p> </p><p>"Not a clue. The um...” she makes a slow stabbing motion and half-expects to have it thrown back at her.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle frowns, eyes dragging back to the mosaic.</p><p> </p><p>The scarce light plays along her profile, honey-yellow along the gentle slant of her nose, her lashes. It makes her look fragile, effervescent. And then she cocks her head, pensive, and Eve’s reminded again by the shadows, dark beneath Villanelle’s cheekbones and darker beneath her brows, that she was here with someone who regularly, and casually, got off on doing things Eve could only begin to imagine but seldom got the chance to try. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle slips her hands into the pockets of her dress and moves along.</p><p> </p><p>“I liked the tour guide,” she says softly.</p><p> </p><p>Eve steps up to the next display, taking up space beside her.</p><p> </p><p>“He was so -” Villanelle mulls it over, tongue curling inside her cheeks and across her teeth to choose her next word carefully, “- committed.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p> </p><p>“To the part.”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, the tips probably help. A lot.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. But -”</p><p> </p><p>They've made it all the way around the mosaic room. Villanelle steps outside first, the sun higher and hotter. Eve’s grateful for its abrasive warmth, keeping her alert to Villanelle’s delicate mood.</p><p> </p><p>“- he is performing every day. The same character. The same story. Same costume. Same route. It is very boring for him.”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess so, yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“And he still does it. Enjoys it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Maybe.”</p><p> </p><p>“The same thing. Over and over and over.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve takes a moment. She steps back from the main walkway, mindful of a group of primary school children, clustered with backpacks that threaten to knock her over.  </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s expression isn’t one of boredom, though. It’s one of disbelief and fatigue and regret, and it continues to baffle and frustrate her. She just can't help herself, when her next frosty comment bypasses her filter and shoots right out.</p><p> </p><p>“I guess you’d know better than anyone.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's eyes flash in defense. Her arms fold across her chest, trapping her plastic audio remote as she looks around for a way out. </p><p> </p><p>“I think <em>this</em> is where pot-kettle comes in,” Eve tries, tentatively pleased when Villanelle’s mouth twitches in recognition.</p><p> </p><p>“I am still not clear how that is used.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a metaphor or - an idiom - or something,” she waves her hand vaguely as they fall in step and head towards the nearest exit.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle relieves her of her headphones and audio controller, and then, along with her own, dumps them in the basket near the main doors, pulling her towards the coffee shop.</p><p> </p><p>“Basically, it’s a bit like - if a pot called a kettle black? When the pot’s black too. Like - two peas in a pod.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle blinks at her. Eve bites her mouth to stop from splitting into a smirk.</p><p> </p><p>“So - I used it correctly?”</p><p> </p><p>She gives it to her, too hot and too exasperated to argue. “Sure. Just - next time, all you need to say is ‘pot, kettle, black’. Not the whole - whatever you said.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your language is very stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>“You'd know. We do have Shakespeare - that's got to count for something.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle clicks her tongue. "We have Tolstoy. Dostoyevski. Nabokov."</p><p> </p><p>She pushes the glass doors open and makes room for Eve to enter first, a smug smile on her face. It doesn't quite reach her usual. It lacks something.</p><p> </p><p>Besides, Eve always liked opening her own doors. The notion that a man, or Villanelle, found her incapable, or worse, flattered, trampled over any sense of chivalry she'd otherwise probably enjoy.</p><p> </p><p>Still, this time and this time only, she accepts the gesture, stepping into the air-conditioned patisserie and waiting for Villanelle to join her.</p><p> </p><p>“I speak five languages.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve presses her lips into her gums. Takes a deep breath. “What do you want to drink?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fluently. I am still learning Mandarin.”</p><p> </p><p>“Drink, Villanelle.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is hard to do it on my own and but I think now, I am probably better than -”</p><p> </p><p>It’s like watching someone take a run-up to a cliff and teeter at the last minute. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s throat bobs as she hesitates. Eve sees it flit over her face, that wave of self-importance chased quickly by gloominess she knew Villanelle tried so hard not to make a habit of.</p><p> </p><p>“Irina?” she prompts as they step up to the front of the queue.</p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, the spotty teenager on the other side of the counter fumbles through their stilted silence and Eve laughs awkwardly through the order.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll uh - I’ll get this. Did you - want something or -”</p><p> </p><p>“Chmomile, please,” Villanelle says gently to her, then throws the boy daggers.</p><p> </p><p>Eve ignores it by fishing around in her handbag, fumbling as the cashier looks between her and Villanelle and then struggles to swallow whatever rude thing Villanelle says to him that Eve’s both grateful and disappointed not to hear.</p><p> </p><p>The wait for their orders seems like forever.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle plays with her bracelet and then her ring and Eve does her best to look at anything but her.</p><p> </p><p>She wishes she'd worn something other than her wristwatch so she could keep herself busy too. She'll be left with a strap mark that she'll hate for weeks. She runs her hand over the smooth leather of her - what Bill had fondly named, her "Mary Poppins" - bag and wonders why Villanelle hadn't made fun of it yet.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think he will ever get tired of it?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s soft. Unpredictable. Eve tries to navigate the conversation carefully.</p><p> </p><p>“Who?”</p><p> </p><p>“The tour guide.”</p><p> </p><p>Haphazardly, she back-peddles to that checkpoint, slightly miffed at the way Villanelle’s mind seemed to work, logical and quick, but always chaotic.</p><p> </p><p>“Of performing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?” she presses, feeling her mouth dry slightly, her heart thud behind her ribs. “Do you?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle played a part better than anyone Eve had ever seen. She was phenomenal at it, weaving in and out of characters with perfect pitch, skipping from language to outfit to city with never-ending bravado Eve struggled to keep up with, but trailed with pigheaded determination. She reveled in it, sought it out, let it feed her and inspire her until she'd grown obsessed by it, the injection of violent colour a narcotic to her greying life.</p><p> </p><p>And now, there were tiny, new specks, glimpses of change, of uncertainty, and Eve wished more than anything for them to go, rattled by the prospect of another unknown.</p><p> </p><p>The drinks finally come and Villanelle takes them silently, leading them outside to a table nestled in shade but open to the breeze.</p><p> </p><p>The city smells like copper and flowers.</p><p> </p><p>Eve inhales. She wants a cigarette. It seems intrusive though, to light up in that moment.</p><p> </p><p>“I still want those things, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve leans back in her chair. Her eyes follow as Villanelle studies her dark tea, long, slender fingers careful around the large mug.</p><p> </p><p>“Those things I told you in Paris.”</p><p> </p><p>She tries to keep her breath steady. The memory of Paris, its fizzy-pop scents and sounds sat at the forefront of her mind. Always. She could still picture the champagne, slick all over Villanelle's hardwood floors, and Villanelle, disheveled and perky, sparkling in her jumper with her bruised face and big eyes. She could recite the things Villanelle had told her by heart.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't. </p><p> </p><p>She drinks her coffee and Villanelle drinks her tea, matching her sip for sip until it's gone.  </p><p> </p><p>The ceramic clinks, cup-to-plate and Eve gives in. "Hard to forget.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a small sound, deep and fractured. Enough to make Eve feel a twinge of nostalgia, reluctant but there.</p><p> </p><p>“Normal life.”</p><p> </p><p>“You still want that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. Normal job. Work from home. Flexibility.”</p><p> </p><p>“Normal job,” she says slowly. “Wouldn’t you find that <em>boring </em>?” her voice dips, aiming for lighthearted but coming off low and clunky in an impression of her best Russian. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle <em>pffts</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Matthias is working from home. His life doesn’t sound very boring.”</p><p> </p><p>“True. But Matthias is also eyeball-deep in bodies you'd only dream of racking up, so I’m not sure the trade-off works?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle taps fingers against her cup and looks thoughtfully up at the clouds overhead. The linen collar of her dress billows around her neck and Eve catches the sunburn there, marring the edge of her hairline. </p><p> </p><p>“He is a big shit. I'm not good at waiting for things.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve glances at her watch. “Three hours.”</p><p> </p><p>“Too long.”</p><p> </p><p>Her coffee’s no longer steaming. She takes a gulp to keep her hands occupied, fidgeting when Villanelle gives her nothing more.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you suggest? We could break in early, rough him up a little -”</p><p> </p><p>“No, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“D'you not fancy getting your hands dirty? Seemed pretty fun for you last night.”</p><p> </p><p>Except it hadn’t, Eve knew that. She’d been able to tell so clearly, if not in the middle of the night, then in the morning and in the van on the drive over to Bath, when she’d taken the wheel and Villanelle had hummed dejectedly along to the radio, uncomfortably sullen as the wind skittered through the windows and swept warmth across the dashboard.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t know why she says it. For the umpteenth time, she finds herself torn between digging for a fight, and digging deeper to get to Villanelle’s underbelly.</p><p> </p><p>She has no right to complain then, doesn't, when Villanelle gets up without a word and goes back into the cafe, returning with a sandwich and fries for one, juice for one, and a chocolate torte for one. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay - I deserved that,” Eve concedes, cheeks twitching when Villanelle chews at her blankly.</p><p> </p><p>She thinks about stealing a fry just to break the ice, then pulls out a cigarette instead. “So we wait for Matthias to finish work.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle busies herself with her lunch.</p><p> </p><p>She’s mad. Half-mad, Eve thinks, because she still keeps looking up, nodding and wiping her mouth as Eve confirms the plan for the evening: wait for Matthias to leave home for work-dinner, get the boys to check the internal security cameras, get in and get out in record time. </p><p> </p><p>And then London. Finally.</p><p> </p><p>She rests her cigarette in the ashtray and takes a sip of her water, waiting for Villanelle to finish. </p><p> </p><p>The meal’s long enough, good enough to undo the bad mood Eve had caused, and she pushes the remainder of her fries to the middle of the table, licking her fingers clean, gesturing to them with her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Eve takes one in good will. </p><p> </p><p>“You never answered my question.”</p><p> </p><p>“Kind of hard to keep up.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle props her chin in her hand. “I like to keep you on your toes.”</p><p> </p><p>“I manage.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve sighs. “Good.”</p><p> </p><p>“So. What is there for you in London?”</p><p> </p><p>The breeze picks up. Eve smooths hair from her face with both hands and rubs her eyes. She sets her forearms on the table, then sneaks another fry and a salt packet, pressing her thumbnail in until it sags.</p><p> </p><p>“More than there is here.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sniffs. “Is there?"</p><p> </p><p>She nods.</p><p> </p><p>"Hmm. That is not a real answer.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve sinks her teeth into the inside of her mouth, worrying the flesh until it splits. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know. Same old. Fresh start. Maybe.”</p><p> </p><p>“Again?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean - London’s - it's familiar. It's - easy to get lost in.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is it.”</p><p> </p><p>She was being combative.</p><p> </p><p>Eve rolls her eyes. “If you don’t want to be found.”</p><p> </p><p>The trees rustle. There's background noise. Their waiter comes and goes and Eve stares at a table nearby, watching a tiny dog yap at a pram. </p><p> </p><p>“But you want to be.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Not any more</em>, she thinks. It would be easier, probably, to rush off abroad, to have a proper go at starting over, to recreate herself.</p><p> </p><p>But London was what she knew, had always known, more than her childhood home, more than Connecticut, and it would always keep so much of herself - and unfortunately, Villanelle - embedded in it.</p><p> </p><p>“What about you? What’s in it for you?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle follows her gaze to the dog. It yaps again.</p><p> </p><p>She sticks her tongue out at it but it carries on, pulling on its leash and almost toppling the coffee table as it struggles to get closer. Its wet mouth snarls. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle snarls right back. "<em>Ugh</em>. They are the worst.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dogs?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. Boring personality. Stupid. <em>Annoying</em>. Look -" she grimaces, "it looks like a little - <em>fyfochka</em>."</p><p> </p><p>Eve leans forward. Takes the last fry. “You’re changing the subject.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle redirects her attention, eyes alert and observant.</p><p> </p><p>"In London?"</p><p> </p><p>Eve nods.</p><p> </p><p>"Now?"</p><p> </p><p>She shrugs as if to say, <em>whichever </em>but really she means both now and before.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle plays along. She stabs into her torte and takes a huge mouthful, working on it methodically for a long while before clinking her fork.</p><p> </p><p>"Now - a lot of things. Good food. <em>Great </em>shopping. Money," she says flippantly.</p><p> </p><p>"You can have those things anywhere."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stretches in her chair. Takes another bite, licking the fork inappropriately. "Hmm. Beautiful women."</p><p> </p><p><em>Jesus</em>. "Again. There are beautiful women everywhere. Barcelona - for example," she raises her eyebrows knowingly.</p><p> </p><p>"Yes. That neighbourhood was <em>nice</em>."</p><p> </p><p>Eve pinches her mouth, irked. She didn't know what she'd expected. "What else?"</p><p> </p><p>"Excellent hotels."</p><p> </p><p>"What else?"</p><p> </p><p>"Fun parks."</p><p> </p><p>"So those are the things pulling you back?"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle frowns then. She slides her chair back a little, abandoning her dessert.</p><p> </p><p>"Who said they are pulling me back?"</p><p> </p><p><em>Touché</em>.</p><p> </p><p>When she thought of London, Eve thought of Villanelle. The two had always seemed interlinked, by natural association, by memory. Taking one from the other felt wrong, as much as taking herself away did.</p><p> </p><p>But what about before? What things had tethered Villanelle before? Konstantin. Eve knew but felt it too raw to ask, too eager to dissect Villanelle's response. And Irina. And herself, maybe? Had she been a tether? Was she still? Did she want to be?</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle takes a deep, finalising breath.</p><p> </p><p>"I want to be somewhere hot. Far away. Somewhere near the sea. With good architecture. And a <em>lot </em>of ice-cream."</p><p> </p><p>Eve sympathised. In fact, it pretty much sounded like the dream, cherry-picking cocktails and wandering through dusty, cobbled, fantasy streets without motive or schedule. She was a long way away from that.</p><p> </p><p>"Not Alaska, then."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle throws her a look, softening.</p><p> </p><p>"I thought you would like it."</p><p> </p><p>"What gave you that idea?"</p><p> </p><p>"Your very ugly snow globe."</p><p> </p><p>Eve's stomach drops. She knew exactly the one. For a while, the globe had taken pride of place - on the shelf above the TV in the weeks after Niko's father came back from his trip. She'd been lenient then, less grumpy, and it'd joined the rest of Niko's keepsakes - shot glasses and trinkets that she used to find endearing in their early years.</p><p> </p><p>And the trinkets had turned to clutter and Eve had moved them to a box beneath the coffee table and then to the utility room and then to the garage, out of sight out of mind-  it, and any hypothetical plans to take the holiday. </p><p> </p><p>She doesn't dwell on how Villanelle might have got her hands on it, but the memory of it puts a damper on her mood and a bitter taste in her mouth. She wants to say something, wants to interrogate Villanelle and dive right into Gemma and Niko and the hospital, just to see her react.</p><p> </p><p>The cards were stacking one by one and Eve knew any mention of her husband would shake their foundations.</p><p> </p><p>She wasn't ready for the topple.</p><p> </p><p>And she doesn't get a choice either, when Villanelle drums her thighs and shrugs.</p><p> </p><p>"But I have changed my mind. Who needs Alaska or the beach when you have this place, huh?" she says sarcastically, scooping up her belongings and motioning for Eve to come along through the exit they'd originally left from.</p><p> </p><p>"Villanelle -"</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't realise what's happening until Villanelle produces change from her pocket and holds out her open palm with a soft, <em>before we go</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares. "What -"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle tips her chin towards the thick, emerald warmth of the main pool.</p><p> </p><p>"You looked like you wanted to."</p><p> </p><p>"No, it's fine. I have my own, I don't really -" she makes to reach inside her handbag but Villanelle insists, stepping up to the ledge.</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches her drop two coins, unusually patient as she waits for them to fall to the bottom. She turns back with a lackluster smile, motioning for Eve to do the same.</p><p> </p><p>"Konstantin did it all of the time. It never works, but - he liked it."</p><p> </p><p>Eve pictures Villanelle in Trafalgar Square with him, at the Trevi fountain, beside the Eiffel Tour. She wonders how many coins the two had tossed through the years and how many wishes.</p><p> </p><p>She takes the last one in Villanelle's hand, rubbing her thumb over it sheepishly before sinking it into the pool. It stares up at her for long minutes, the bath warm against her fingers. And then the steam curls and she flicks it away along with the water, wiping the remnants on her jeans.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's already looking at her as she rises from her haunches.</p><p> </p><p>It's a cautious look. It makes her feel exposed.</p><p> </p><p>She clears her throat irately.</p><p> </p><p>"What did you wish for?"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle brightens, grateful for the reprieve. She looks like she might say, might give Eve a glimpse into the inner workings of her brain, and then -</p><p> </p><p>"If I told you, I would <em>really </em>have to kill you."</p><p> </p><p>The joke rolls and splats, just as Eve's coin had. Funny how Villanelle always managed to single-handedly light her up and snuff her out at the turn of a phrase. </p><p> </p><p>She grits her teeth and yanks her cardigan tighter around herself, trailing Villanelle back to the car park and letting the weight of her bag gnaw into her shoulder, rubbing and chafing against the pounding scar until she thinks of and feels nothing else.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>@vracs1 for twitter shenanigans</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Bath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>He’s running late.</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares at the clock and feels herself sweat. </p><p> </p><p>Taking her cardigan off hadn’t helped. Blasting the air-con hadn’t either. She wipes her forehead and kicks her feet out onto the dashboard where the late evening sun collects and glows.</p><p> </p><p>They sit parked in a sleepy, cobbled street. </p><p> </p><p>The houses are huge, immaculate, right down to the flowerbeds and Eve scowls at the quiet suburbia of it all, frustrated to be forced to wait in its epicentre.</p><p> </p><p>From the beginning, she knew a bright blue van would stick out like a sore thumb. Villanelle had picked style over substance and it stood to bite them in the ass, surrounded by sleek, luxury cars and understated, high-end architecture. </p><p> </p><p>The thought of being stopped and questioned, searched, God forbid, makes her bristle and turns her insides out.</p><p> </p><p>Her stomach grumbles.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sticks her head through the driver’s window to toss her a Coke.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” she frowns. “You look terrible. Drink. I told you it would be useful - I am always right."</p><p> </p><p>The buzzing from the mini fridge had been loud and constant. Most of the time Eve could barely hear herself think. </p><p> </p><p>It weighed them down. Used a lot of the car’s battery. And provided an endless supply of snacks Villanelle somehow kept topped up, and Eve’s mood along with it, just about.</p><p> </p><p>She pops the can and drains half.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle slides in. “Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Whatever’s left ends up in the cup holder.</p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle go back to polishing off the rest of a packet of Tangfastics. </p><p> </p><p>“How are you so calm about this?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs. “I have done it before.”</p><p> </p><p>“How can you eat right now?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle snaps one last sweet between her teeth and holds the rest out for the taking. </p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“These are very delicious. Maybe I will get fat, like Moose, huh? Would you still find me sexy, if I got fat?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve scoffs. She doesn’t bother with a response, hooking her elbow against the open window in the hope the breeze might calm her down.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle mutters to herself dryly, something arrogant and boastful about beauty standards, how easily she surpassed them, and Eve lets her head drop back against the head-rest with closed eyes and a short fuse.</p><p> </p><p>She almost dozes. Almost manages to forget where she is and mentally teleports to a South London beer garden where she pictures herself totally alone and well on the way to a regrettable sunburn.</p><p> </p><p>The knock on Villanelle’s window shatters her daydream and sends her heart into her throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve Polastri?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares at Villanelle.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi - yeah, that’s me,” Villanelle says in perfect Connecticut-American, giving a sweet smile as the pizza delivery guy eyes them both nervously, produceing a twelve-incher.</p><p> </p><p>Eve bristles.</p><p> </p><p>“Lovely. Keep the change,” she hands him what Eve’s pretty sure is a hundred-pound note, then rolls the window up before he gets another word in.</p><p> </p><p>The scent of cheese and mushroom fills the space. Eve hates herself for it, but her mouth waters.</p><p> </p><p>“You ordered pizza on a stake-out? Using my name.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shoves a slice in her mouth and nods enthusiastically. She finishes it in seconds, then moves to take another.</p><p> </p><p>Eve tugs the box from her.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you trying to get us killed or - ?”</p><p> </p><p>“You are hungry. Your stomach has been making sounds like some angry bear. You didn't have lunch, remember? I am just looking out for you, Eve. Eat. Don’t worry so much.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry so much? <em> One </em> of us has to make sure we don't end up dead! We’re about to break into a three-million -”</p><p> </p><p>“No - <em> I </em> will break in. You just have to look -” Villanelle eyes her wistfully, raking over her face and hair, “inconspicuous.”</p><p> </p><p>The word tumbles, chunky and stifled by her next enormous bite and Eve watches it disappear, morbidly fascinated with just how much Villanelle ate, mucky and quick and devastatingly ravenous. </p><p> </p><p>She ignores Villanelle’s offer of a napkin, resigning herself to a slice of her own. </p><p> </p><p>The pizza’s dirty, smeared with every topping under the sun, dark blotches soaking through the sides of the cardboard.   </p><p> </p><p>It’s going to give her indigestion - she’ll probably end up puking from grease overload if her nerves didn’t get her first. Maybe she’d make a habit of it - barfing on command. She wonders how many times it would take for Villanelle to finally up and leave.</p><p> </p><p>She focuses on the food, nevertheless grateful to fill the gaping hole in her stomach, grateful for something to pass the time.</p><p> </p><p>Without the delay, they would’ve been on the way to London by now. Instead, it’d be sunset soon, and then dark, and they’d have to spend another night, shacked up in an ibis or hopefully a last-minute airbnb, though even Villanelle’s luck had its limits. </p><p> </p><p>Given the choice, of course Eve would take a luxury stay - a getaway, a mini break, a holiday (imagine!) - but all she wants is home. Her shitty apartment and uncomfortable bed. Familiar, imperfect, and hers. </p><p> </p><p>She stretches in her seat and slides her bare toes back up onto the dash.</p><p> </p><p>“You have nice feet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am paying you a compliment.”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t ask for one.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know, Eve, when you get a compliment, it is good to give one. It’s polite. Sometimes you are very - the opposite.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not real if you’re fishing for one.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a face as though it’s the stupidest thing she's ever heard. “I hate fishing.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve reminds herself not to ever use British turns of phrase on her again. She’s about to make that clear when the front door to the Victorian build slams shut and they watch Matthias make his way to his convertible.</p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” she digs her phone out of her handbag to dial Bear, the remnants of their pizza tossed out the window to make space for the laptop. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Eve</em>! I was still -”</p><p> </p><p>The phone rings out as she works fast to log into her emails, waiting for the floor plan to come through.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Shh</em> - Bear, hi. He’s out. Coast clear?”</p><p> </p><p>Bear checks over the home security system and instructs Villanelle on how to go about disabling it. </p><p> </p><p>It’s quick work. </p><p> </p><p>Eve watches Villanelle sort through the back of the van, navigating the equipment like she was born to.</p><p> </p><p>It makes her feel useless, playing look-out. She definitely didn’t have the stomach for broad daylight robbery, there was no point convincing herself otherwise, but she sort of wished she’d taken a more proactive approach.</p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle gather her stuff, shoving various gadgets in her backpack,  then sliding on a baseball cap, sunglasses, gloves.</p><p> </p><p>She'd expected something more flamboyant, a wig at the least, surprised with how little effort Villanelle makes on this occasion, casual as she slams the back doors shut and steps up to her side of the van.</p><p> </p><p>“Spy stuff, cool huh?"</p><p> </p><p>"Not really," she says flippantly.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle taps the window sill. "Don't do anything stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nice.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know what I mean,” Villanelle rolls her eyes. “Don’t go anywhere. And don’t look so -” she puffs out her cheeks, “constipated.”</p><p> </p><p>“Asshole.”</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes flash. </p><p> </p><p>Eve nods towards the house. “Go.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am excellent at my job. I will be quick. Don’t eat any of those,” she points to the sweets on the driver’s seat, “they are mine. If you are still hungry, you shouldn’t have thrown the pizza.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve cranes her head to see the box crooked at Villanelle’s feet on the pavement.</p><p> </p><p>“Go. We haven’t got all day.”</p><p> </p><p>“Actually, we do. It is already eight. We have spent <em> all day </em> waiting for this.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve gives a flat, dead-behind-the-eyes smile and makes a point of rolling up her window just as Villanelle makes to say her parting words.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next hour passes in a fast, adrenaline-infused blur.</p><p> </p><p>Eve stays on the phone to Bear to keep herself from going insane, or worse, driving off without so much as a look back.</p><p> </p><p>She stress-eats through Villanelle’s candy.</p><p> </p><p>Almost has a stroke each time a car pulls up or another drives away.</p><p> </p><p>Tries not to think about how much she needs the toilet.</p><p> </p><p>Tries not to think about Villanelle, loitering in a very expensive, very highly secured home, balls to the wind in a highly stupid move. She should, at some point, probably bring up how erratically they seemed to have been doing things of late: an accidental non-accidental murder, a break-in, what next? </p><p> </p><p>She lets Bear talk her down from her stress-ledge, talking her through the breadcrumb trail instead - they needed the laptop in the hopes there’d be a password somewhere, nice and clear in a Word doc if Matthias was as dumb as he looked. The password would get them into online accounts which they’d, so far, had little luck with. The accounts would help track any national transfers, and hopefully lead to the root of the problem i.e. the Twelve. Maybe.</p><p> </p><p>None of it made much sense. </p><p> </p><p>Eve hears it all but what she registers is, <em> this is a trail and you’ve only just started and you and Villanelle might need to travel to the ass-end of nowhere to really get what you want, and oops, sorry, we thought this would be a weekend deal but we screwed up.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The conversation takes a sour turn so she lights a cigarette, careful to blow downstream and attract as little attention as possible.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle doesn’t take long but it feels like forever. She’s slow, casual as she saunters back across the street with a cocky smile Eve ignores, hurrying her inside.</p><p> </p><p>“I have it.”</p><p> </p><p>“We have it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dandy,” Bear says over the loudspeaker.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle groans at the empty packet of sweets. She swipes it away with a disappointed look, knuckling down as Bear proceeds to instruct them on how to hack into the desktop. </p><p> </p><p>Eve stares at the picture frame in Villanelle’s lap. “What’s that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Evidence,” Villanelle tells her softly. The photograph shows Matthias and Konstantin at a black tie event.</p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t miss the way Villanelle stares at it, distracted, her fingers light against the edges of the frame. She’d say something, tentatively, in passing, acknowledge his presence at least, but Bear continues to chatter and Villanelle spends barely a second removing the photo and throwing the frame out the window.</p><p> </p><p>Eve blinks. </p><p> </p><p>“What? <em> You </em>do it. I am just following your lead, you set a very nice example,” she says dryly, zipping the photograph inside her backpack and getting back to work.</p><p> </p><p>She’s good with technology. Way better than Eve.</p><p> </p><p>She shares her screen with Bitter Pill and rifles through the documents, finding a list of passwords with a low, unimpressed chuckle, leaving Bear and Jamie to sort the rest.</p><p> </p><p>It takes them ten minutes. They drag, somehow, stretched by the heavy silence in the van.</p><p> </p><p>It makes Eve feel frazzled, more so by the fact Villanelle sits eerily calm, patient and distractible as she fiddles with the indicator, clicking and unclicking it over and over.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s throat spasms.</p><p> </p><p>“He uh - he used to tell me off all the time for stuff like that, y'know?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes snap to hers curiously.</p><p> </p><p>“Konstantin?”</p><p> </p><p>She nods. “Glove box,” she tilts her head.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s fingers linger and then drop. </p><p> </p><p>“Me too.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve rubs at her mouth. She digs her nail into her bottom lip to stop herself from saying something irrational, temptingly hurtful. </p><p> </p><p>She stares out at the neighbouring driveways and wonders when the sun will set. When they’ll be able to put a full stop to their hellride of a day and close the entire chapter.</p><p> </p><p>“The money’s going to a boutique at the Jewellery Quarter, Birmingham. There's a lead to - it’s an address in Carlisle? Where the fuck is that?” Bear’s voice finally booms. </p><p> </p><p>Eve can hear him furiously tapping away on the end of the line.</p><p> </p><p>“Stinks of laundering.”</p><p> </p><p>She leans forward, elbows to thighs. She presses the balls of her hands into her eyelids.</p><p> </p><p>“To Carlisle,” she says flatly. </p><p> </p><p>“Right. Remote location. Spread out.”</p><p> </p><p>“Great. What’s the next stop after Carlisle? Because what you’re telling me makes no fucking sense.”</p><p> </p><p>“I - haven’t got a bastard clue.”</p><p> </p><p>“So it’s a dead-end.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s looking at her. </p><p> </p><p>She’s looking at her the way she does when she knows Eve’s going to blow a fuse. It’s a mix of amusement and uncertainty in just the right amount to set her off.</p><p> </p><p>“We can get you to Birmingham, follow the lead from the boutique accounts and go from there?” He tries half-heartedly.</p><p> </p><p>Eve slams back in her seat. </p><p> </p><p>“Do it from London.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not quite how - there’s paper records, stuff we can’t get electronically.”</p><p> </p><p>She sighs. “Make it work.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve - one pair of hands is not enough, it’s better if you stay with -”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re on your own.”</p><p> </p><p> She moves to hang up but Bear’s faster.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve -”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No.</em> <em>Listen </em>to me - I’m going home. No Birmingham, no Carlisle, I’m over it, it wasn’t even part of the - stop looking at me like that!” she snaps at Villanelle who’s turned in her seat to give her, her full, undivided attention. </p><p> </p><p>It’s unnerving and quick, the way her eyes change from riveted to concerned. </p><p> </p><p>“Drop me at the station.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stays where she is - elbow to the headrest so she can lean her temple to her fist.</p><p> </p><p>“You can make a trip of it - a - a holiday!”</p><p> </p><p>She hears Jamie in the background, “You did want a holiday!” </p><p> </p><p>“Like a bonding exercise - team-building.”</p><p> </p><p>“Team building!” Jamie echoes. </p><p> </p><p>The enthusiasm bubbles over into hot, boiling resentment and Eve finds herself enclosed, in her seat, in the van, in the situation, in all the attention and Villanelle’s stare, all eyes on her, so-to-speak, and it does nothing for her overwhelming anxiety, her desperate need for freedom, for some sort of release from it, from herself, she can’t, she just <em> can’t </em>- </p><p> </p><p>“She <em> shot </em> me!” she barks, wondering how the hell Carolyn failed to mention this. “She <em> actually </em>- you shot me!” she turns to Villanelle, struggling to direct her anger. </p><p> </p><p>She kicks her leg out, slamming her heel into the dashboard. </p><p> </p><p>“You left me for dead! You walked away,<em> knowing </em> I wouldn't wake up, totally and completely fucking okay with it! You just - you were <em> absolutely </em>okay with it! Did - “ she swallows. </p><p> </p><p>Spins in her seat.</p><p> </p><p>Opens the passenger door to let more air in. </p><p> </p><p>Folds over.</p><p> </p><p>Wind and complete silence greet her. The only sound she registers is Bear’s fraught breathing through the haze of her own emotion. </p><p> </p><p>“Eve,” Villanelle says gently. “Eve, give me the phone.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you get that? Did you get any of that? Bear -”</p><p> </p><p>“Carolyn did mention the -”</p><p> </p><p>“- oh my <em> God </em> -”</p><p> </p><p>“- the tourists.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tourists!” she yells, “Did you get that part? Or -” she waves her hand, “<em> Tourists</em>, Villanelle. Not an ambulance - thanks for calling them, by the way. Not Konstantin or Kenny or whoever the hell picked up Hugo. <em> Tourists </em>-”</p><p> </p><p>“The phone, Eve. You are going to puke again, please, can you just -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle reaches over and attempts to take it from her but Eve’s quicker, extending her arm through the open door as Bear tries to interject.</p><p> </p><p>“You are making a <em> scene,</em>” Villanelle says calmly. </p><p> </p><p>Eve feels her reach over and shut them in, yanking the phone away with a wedged knee to her thigh, carefully balanced so she doesn’t slide off as she continues the call.</p><p> </p><p>“Moose, hello -”</p><p> </p><p>Eve shoves her, satisfied when she topples back into her seat with a hard thud.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re deranged, you know that?” she growls, fuming when Villanelle continues to answer Bear politely, softly, nodding her head along. “You don’t care about anything! You were <em>right</em> - go figure!" she laughs emptily. "You don’t feel <em> anything </em>! You’re broken!” </p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me -”  Villanelle continues, as if Eve’s outburst is merely an inconvenience, a bratty interruption to their grown-up talk.</p><p> </p><p>Eve twists and shoves her foot into Villanelle’s side. “<em>God,</em>” she hurls, “just acknowledge it, for fuck’s sake! It’s like you’re completely fucking dead inside - “</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s head snaps round, mouth parted mid-sentence.</p><p> </p><p>“You shot me! <em>Point blank, </em>it’s like you -”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, but I didn’t shoot your stupid moustache, did I?” she spits right back and it’s glorious, perfect, just what Eve needs to launch herself out of the slingshot of her seat and into Villanelle’s, throwing herself into Villanelle's lap and clamping her hands on top of Villanelle's shoulders until she’s got her pinned to the back-rest.</p><p> </p><p>The horn fires off, loud, long.</p><p> </p><p>She can't bring herself to care.</p><p> </p><p>“Nope, your dickhead boss did,” she barks out and tightens her grip, panting breathlessly, aching to lift her hand higher and clench it around Villanelle’s neck.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle bucks her. </p><p> </p><p>It's so effortless, Eve barely registers she's being tossed back into her own seat until Villanelle’s against her, forearm across her chest to keep her pinned.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve, you are making a habit of this. You have a thing for moving vehicles?”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re not <em> moving</em>. Get <em> off </em>me.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle puts more weight into her hold.</p><p> </p><p>It makes Eve's chest clamp down. She sucks in a shallow breath. It hurts.</p><p> </p><p>“Not until you calm down.”</p><p> </p><p>“Get your fucking hands off me,” she screeches, the sound thin and reedy, lacking air as she pummels her fists into Villanelle’s back, barely jostling her.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stays put. The shape of her is hard and soft, sturdy and immovable.</p><p> </p><p>Eve feels herself sweat and then throb, right along the seam of her scar as she pulls back her shoulder and swings.</p><p> </p><p>She groans in agony.</p><p> </p><p>“You will hurt yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>“Guys?” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle glances down to where the phone's dropped, wedged beneath the seat.</p><p> </p><p>Eve manages to get fingers into her ribs. She pinches, clawing, digging into the muscle there.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Hey</em>! Stop it!” Villanelle whines.</p><p> </p><p>The knee at Eve’s side digs deeper into the scuffed material of the seat and Villanelle mounts her fully, pinning her exactly like she had on the bus.</p><p> </p><p>Eve pants.</p><p> </p><p>Her ears ring.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes hurt, God, she can still feel the phantom of the bruise that had lain across her eyes and forehead for days after.</p><p> </p><p>She wills herself not to think of the kiss. The inner collision of blind rage and confusion and desperation that had possessed her and brought tears to her eyes. If she starts crying now, there will be no end to it.</p><p> </p><p>“I had a husband! A house! A <em> chicken</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>“A chicken,” Villanelle says somberly. Her face is soft, aglow in the setting ambers and pinks, but her hands are strong, merciless as they hold Eve still, one to anchor both wrists to her lap and one to her shoulder to keep her back.</p><p> </p><p>“He was on a ventilator for <em> weeks </em>- you gave him a goddamn tracheostomy!”</p><p> </p><p>“They have that in the veterinary hospital?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Urghh</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are very lucky to have the NHS.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve struggles against her restraints. The words jumble in her head. It feels like she’s dunking for apples, dunking for anything that will come through her parched, tight throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Gemma -”</p><p> </p><p>“She was <em> annoying</em>! You are welcome.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not a reason to - Niko had to be <em> sectioned </em>- I couldn’t wash my hair properly for months.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle snorts. It’s not a happy sound, just surprised, bemused. Her grip loosens and Eve’s left gasping, stewing in the heat of the van.</p><p> </p><p>She looks up to see Villanelle leant back, haphazard strands loose from her bun, some stuck to her sweaty temples. The hot air inside her deflates a little and she feels the pressure ease. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you have any idea how long it took to recover?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle chews her mouth. Her eyes fall to Eve’s shoulder, covered by her blouse. They brim with morbid curiosity. </p><p> </p><p>Eve decides she’ll never give her the satisfaction of seeing her handiwork. She tries to push herself into a better sitting position beneath Villanelle's lap, using her elbows to prop herself up.</p><p> </p><p>Her shoulder socket gives and she slides right back with a soft <em> ooph.</em> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle touches her there.</p><p> </p><p>Hooks her thumb between her clavicle and her arm bone and presses gently until it pulses and steals the air right out of her.</p><p> </p><p>She licks her lips. “Clearly not long enough.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t struggle this time.</p><p> </p><p>She welcomes the pain. It feels good to have it evoked by someone else, even if Villanelle does it slowly, gently, pushing her to the limit and then giving up entirely, her fingers skirting up lightly into the loose strands of her hair.</p><p> </p><p>She tries to tilt her head away but Villanelle takes a curl, flattening it with her fingers and then letting it bounce free.</p><p> </p><p>“Your hair is still very beautiful.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve shuts her eyes. She still sees Villanelle behind her lids, still feels the weight and the smell and the strength of her and then Villanelle moves, no longer blocking what little light is left and Eve feels both free and disappointed.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle huffs, bending down to take the call as she settles back into the driver’s seat, breathless.</p><p> </p><p>“Just a minute.”</p><p> </p><p>She holds the phone away from her mouth and sighs heavily.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you feel better?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares up at the ceiling. “<em>No</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to fight.”</p><p> </p><p>She closes her eyes again. There is perfect stillness. Villanelle waits for her.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, but we’re so good at it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bear?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve listens as the two chat, as Villanelle asks him to book her an airbnb, his voice filtering through the speaker.</p><p> </p><p>She insists on being taken home but the words are so quiet, so set on staying in her mouth, she doesn’t even believe them herself.</p><p> </p><p>“In July? Fat chance.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle scoots closer. “Let me apologise.”</p><p> </p><p>“For what?”</p><p> </p><p>“For moustache.”</p><p> </p><p>She should be appalled. She is. Still reeling, of course she is.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle is trying though, fumbling her way through something that’s not even close to an apology and, Eve’s sure, never will be. She must sense the change in her, because she starts the engine and instructs Bear to book them a place in Oxford.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait - <em>what</em>? Why Oxford?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle raises an eyebrow at her. “Do you really want to go back to London?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” No. Yes, in principle.</p><p> </p><p>“But I will not be there.”</p><p> </p><p>“Exactly. That sounds perfect.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle frowns, narrowing her eyes before giving Bear her credit card and setting up the sat-nav.</p><p> </p><p>“You guys are fucking crazy.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are fat. Look, Eve - Oxford will be nice - I promise,” she shrugs. “We will buy new clothes, some things for the van, food. A small detour."</p><p> </p><p>She pauses to gauge Eve's reaction. "Come <em> on.</em> Let yourself go,” she says gently, turning on the radio. Her bright mood is palpable. "<em>Oh </em>- we can rent bicycles!”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle -”</p><p> </p><p>“And if you are having a bad time, I will pay for your train back to London and go to Birmingham alone. Okay? Don’t you want to find out who did that to Kenny? Don’t you want it to be over?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares at the navigation system, the robotic voice angular and jarring.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle tries again. “You said Bonnie and Clyde.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s pretty sure that’s exactly the opposite of what she’d said in Rome. Still, she runs with it. “Don’t they both die?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stretches. She puts the van in gear and slinks her forearm against the steering wheel. </p><p> </p><p>“I will look after you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You said that the last time.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t....myself.”</p><p> </p><p>“I think you were more yourself than you’ve ever been.”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t believe that. Not at all, not any more. But it was easier than believing in uncertainty, in change.</p><p> </p><p>“You were mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“You tried to kill me!”</p><p> </p><p>“You hurt me.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve coughs. “You manipulated me.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle reaches for Eve’s discarded cardigan behind the driver’s seat, careful to keep the van in check as she tosses it over for Eve to cover herself from the cool night wind.</p><p> </p><p>“You said you had no one left.”</p><p> </p><p>And there it was, the leit-motif. </p><p> </p><p>Eve’s thankful to be set in motion, to be able to focus her attention on the passing houses, the beautiful, softly lit roads that guide them out onto the motorway. </p><p> </p><p>“Oxford doesn’t even come close to an apology, you know that, right?” she finally says, when they’re close to midnight and Villanelle’s stopped humming to the radio, both of them too tired to do anything but exist beside each other.</p><p> </p><p>“I know. But it is a good place to start.”</p><p> </p><p>And reluctantly, <em>slowly</em>, after a long day, a splitting headache and mind-numbing, all-consuming exhaustion, Eve feels her walls tremble a little, finally letting herself believe that maybe, maybe it just might be.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for tuning in.</p><p>Twitter @vracs1</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Oxford</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have no idea how this became 4500 a pop 😬</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>“This isn’t what I -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle turns to look at her.</p><p> </p><p>“You want to wait upstairs?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve eyes the glass displays, the chest of daggers, the small pharmaceutical collection in the corner and finally the weathered, elderly gent, dressed in a tailored tweed, three-piece suit, his frame delicate but engaged in helping Villanelle with her perusal.</p><p> </p><p>“No, I just - didn’t expect this.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods for her to come over. “Look,” she points to a box of bullets, lifting one between thumb and forefinger for inspection.</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches her analyse the make and model carefully, rolling it along the flat of her palm to feel the cool metal, the weight of it in her hand.</p><p> </p><p>They’d spent the entire morning there, Eve under the pretense that this would be a light break, a shopping trip to a quirky store, and Villanelle, confident but understated as she’d navigated her way past weaponry so specific, Eve could only picture it in films, her big, hazel eyes eager and her form professional, even in her scholarly jacket and frayed denim shorts, Docs laced up to the nines.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sets the bullet down with a final click and taps her fingers against the glass.</p><p> </p><p>“We will take ten.”</p><p> </p><p>Gregory - from the name-tag, Eve notes - smiles politely, his pale, papery skin dusty in the shadowed basement light. </p><p> </p><p>He looks like a university professor or a scientist, a perfumer, Eve thinks, and scoffs to herself. </p><p> </p><p>He looks kind, harmless, full of wisdom as he sells Villanelle more ammunition than she’s seen in her entire life, a curved blade small enough to fit inside a boot, rohypnol, chloroform - just in case - he talks Villanelle through carefully, pointing to the instructions on the back of the bottle like a grandfather might to a child. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle entertains him, surprisingly patient and pensive, packing her purchases neatly into a holdall, the handwritten bill tucked into the inner pocket of her blazer and swapped for two thick wads of cash.</p><p> </p><p>“A pleasure, Oksana.”</p><p> </p><p>“It's nice to see you again,” Villanelle says softly, somber as they shake hands and she slings the bag across her shoulder, urging Eve gently back upstairs.</p><p> </p><p>The winding staircase breaks into summer light as they ascend.</p><p> </p><p>The mirrors collect warmth and space.</p><p> </p><p>Eve sees their reflections replicate in dozens and infinities.</p><p> </p><p>She sees Villanelle's face, dreamy but downcast, focused on the burgundy leather of her boots as they thud two steps behind her.</p><p> </p><p>The perfume bottles glint and glitter, intricate in their casings. They scatter light in all directions, prisms of technicolor Eve tries very hard not to bash in her haste on out the door. </p><p> </p><p>“That was quick.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve folds her arms.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you said you had guns in the boot.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs. "Yeah."</p><p> </p><p>“So -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle gives her that look, the <em> Oh Eve </em> look that stokes her impatience. “Did you think I would leave you in a van with loaded guns?”</p><p> </p><p>“I could say the same for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am trained to use them, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh-huh. How hard can it be?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle quirks her mouth. Raises her eyebrow and smiles a soft, amused smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Not very. If you practise,” she says matter-of-factly, turning to lead them back towards the van, the Oxford roads uneven and cobbled as they join the main high-street. “I could teach you, if you want.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve shoves her hands in her pockets. “Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know. It would be useful.”</p><p> </p><p>“No it wouldn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“No?”</p><p> </p><p>She looks to her side, to Villanelle who divides her attention between her and the beautiful buildings they pass, her eyes shining big with curiosity. Endearing.</p><p> </p><p>Eve stomps the feeling down.</p><p> </p><p>“So I can kill, like you?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle lets the duffel slide off her shoulder and waits for the light to change.</p><p> </p><p>“So you can defend yourself. Not everything is about killing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle swallows. She squints up at the green man. Her breathing deepens. “It doesn’t have to be.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you make it be.”</p><p> </p><p>The lights change. They cross. </p><p> </p><p>They cross and Villanelle is no less moody, no less closed-off by the time they reach the van to dump their belongings. </p><p> </p><p>Eve takes the opportunity to look up food places.</p><p> </p><p>She has one ready once Villanelle’s locked their purchases in the safety box and finally decided to look at her again, frosty but disarmed. </p><p> </p><p>“Listen,” she sighs. She holds up a picture of a cute little delicatessen Villanelle’s eyes are instantly drawn to. “I’ll get us lunch, alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“And bikes - for after.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve pockets her phone and hands Villanelle her Sandqvist roll-top, apologetic, slow and cautious as she clicks the van’s back doors shut and leans into the sun.</p><p> </p><p>“I get why we had to go to that place, I do. Be prepared, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods quietly. The lapel of her blazer sticks up at her nape where the backpack pushes against it. </p><p> </p><p>Eve digs her tongue into the roof of her mouth and reaches to flick it down for her, quick and sterile as she glances to her watch with casual disinterest, handbag at the ready.</p><p> </p><p>“It just - caught me off-guard. Figured we’d be -  I don’t know - eating ice-cream and punting, or rowing or - something,” she makes a face.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that what you want?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve frowns. “Ice-cream? I could go for ice-cream.”</p><p> </p><p>“And punting? A bicycle ride,” she adds, and then, playfully, for the first time that day, her earlier cobwebs finally shaken off, “if you can keep up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ideally not all at the same time.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle widens her eyes, nostrils flaring. “<em>Eve </em>. Is that - were you trying to make a joke?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>God</em>, no.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are so <em> serious</em>, all of the time. This is  - something new.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t get used to it,” she snaps, but she’s fizzing with something, something light and persistent, pulling at the seams of her mouth as she turns to stifle it, quickening her pace to lead them back towards the city centre. </p><p> </p><p>She ignores the small, rueful glimpse of a smile Villanelle gives her before the up-turned corners of her eyes are hidden for good behind her matte-framed sunglasses.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She hasn’t cycled for over a decade.</p><p> </p><p>She’s raging.</p><p> </p><p>She almost rides straight into oncoming traffic, cutting the corner to follow Villanelle towards the towering body of Christ Church, its gorgeous, intricate point looming above them as they get closer, narrowly missing groups of students and individual tourists meandering along the green. </p><p> </p><p>The bike both suits and looks entirely displaced under Villanelle. The frame is lavender, tyres slim but strong against the uneven road, seat adjusted for a less classical feel that elongates Villanelle’s legs as she stands up on the pedals.</p><p> </p><p>It’s the woven basket that does it, though. Eve has her own, wide enough to fit her handbag and the helmets the shop assistant insisted on.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s is empty, no weight inside to keep it from bouncing clumsily up and down as she navigates the dents and bumps along the way. </p><p> </p><p>In another universe, it’d be filled with things, Eve imagines. Textbooks or baked goods or bouquets of flowers. She catches herself picturing Villanelle as a student, her ponytail swinging as she rides ahead. </p><p> </p><p>She thinks of her, several years younger, eager to make her lectures, shining in debate or languages or history, criminal psychology, maybe - Eve smirks to herself -  or - what would she have chosen? She’d have gotten in with no effort, whip-smart and infuriatingly conceited. </p><p> </p><p>In another universe, Villanelle would have a normal life, the normality she desperately craved.</p><p> </p><p>In another universe, Eve remembers, and her bike shakes, Villanelle would be Oksana, the girl Eve had only ever caught glimpses of, and even then, only barely, barely enough to keep her satisfied, to keep her hungry for more.</p><p> </p><p>In another universe, their paths wouldn’t cross and they would be strangers and Eve would remain asleep to her own existence, safe among the things she knew so well.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle dismounts perfectly, smiling as she leans her bicycle, unsecured, against the biscuit-coloured brick. She watches Eve wobble to a stop, almost toppling on her side before fast hands catch her, stabilising the handlebars to help her come off.</p><p> </p><p>“You are very rusty.”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t see that.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a show of looking around conspicuously, hands in the pockets of her shorts. “See what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hilarious,” Eve grabs her handbag, ignoring the soft<em> I know </em> Villanelle throws her way. She nods towards the parked ice-cream van just outside the college, the queue of students dwindling in perfect time. “Want one?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, a big one. And after, we will do another walking tour, what do you think?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle elbows her. “A joke, Eve. You know what that is now. After, we will take you shopping, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>The second option sounded worse.</p><p> </p><p>As payback, Eve gets her coffee and pistachio ice-cream with lemon syrup, horrified when Villanelle actually likes it, putting most of it away before they’ve even made it through the college gates onto the manicured lawn.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t say anything this time, not when the ice-cream drips down Villanelle’s wrist, not when a toddler collides with the backs of her legs and Villanelle <em> almost </em>throttles him on the spot, not when she tries to focus all her energy on reading the placards and Villanelle repeatedly whines next to her about how boring she found it all.</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t find Bath boring.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Villanelle drops her voice to a tenor, “because I have never been to Bath. And Romans are not boring,” she says indignantly, “they are - cool.”</p><p> </p><p>“Cool,” Eve raises an eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Very powerful.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very sexist.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very tactical.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fascist.”</p><p> </p><p>“First democracy,” Villanelle challenges.</p><p> </p><p>Eve leans back against the placard, nodding. “Actually, that was the Greeks.”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever. You know they ruled over four centuries? Until Napoleon and the Ottomans.”</p><p> </p><p><em> God</em>, she was <em> really </em>into this. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah - you know what? I reckon you'd have studied history. You'd be good at it.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stops mid-sentence. Looks at Eve with a pleased sort of smile, knowing she’d probably spent most of the cycle trying to figure it out. She looks out at the perimeter of the college and shrugs. “Here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grimaces in disgust. “Not here.”</p><p> </p><p>“What? What’s wrong with <em> here</em>? <em> Look </em>at this place.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have seen it. A <em> lot</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve folds her arms defiantly. She takes a deep breath, trying for a polite smile as a young couple pass them hand-in-hand. </p><p> </p><p>“It is full of - spoiled, rich, arrogant, white, boring -”</p><p> </p><p>“Have you <em> met </em>yourself?” she snaps, and then softer, “Not the - not so much the boring, just -”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t - “</p><p> </p><p>“They are all assholes.”</p><p> </p><p>To prove her point, Villanelle looks over at a group of boys in pin-striped navy jackets, pacing out what looked to Eve like an old-school set-up for croquet.</p><p> </p><p>“See?”</p><p> </p><p>“Leave them.”</p><p> </p><p>“They will be - what is it called? Conservatives, no?” Villanelle scoffs. “Rich, white men in charge of everything,” she says it like it’s dirt in her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Eve had, even before this trip, realised that for Villanelle, rich-white-men had (and women, in her case) definitely been the main catalyst for going rogue - feeling out of control, under the thumb of somebody else, puppeteered by those above her for things she no longer seemed to want to do for love nor money.</p><p> </p><p>Still. </p><p> </p><p>“Not all of them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Most.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve readjusts her watch. “Niko went here.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s mouth parts, awkward words lingering behind her teeth. Eve watches her throat bob, watches her tuck baby hair behind her ear and loosen some of the pride in her shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. He did his masters in education at Trinity.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s soft, barely a sound. </p><p> </p><p>Eve powers on. “<em>Summa cum laude</em>, and he was -” she swallows, “probably as far removed from ‘<em>asshole’ </em>as you can get.” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods mutely. She squints at the placard, suddenly interested, even though Eve’s body covers most of the text. If she didn’t know any better, Eve would call it - well, she doesn’t know what she’d call it, but the wilting look on Villanelle’s face looks an awful lot like sympathy, maybe even shame. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever it is, Eve was seeing it for the first time and it made her ache.</p><p> </p><p>She steps away to put space between them, leaving Villanelle to read alone.</p><p> </p><p>It takes a long time. Villanelle spends ages there and then even longer analysing the architecture around them, like she’s paying her respects or taking it in for the first time, which Eve now knew wasn’t. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle fidgets. Scuffs her boot. Readjusts her ponytail. </p><p> </p><p>Eve decides to play nice, stifling her nostalgia and fading grief with a clear of her throat. “So uh - what’s the deal with Gregory?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle finally spins to face her. Her eyes are dark coffee, even against the immaculate, green backdrop. </p><p> </p><p>Eve shrugs her eyebrows in askance, grateful when Villanelle picks up her backpack and follows her out of the college, leaving both it and the somber mood behind.</p><p> </p><p>“He is an old friend.”</p><p> </p><p>“Unsettling.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rolls her eyes. “More of a - mentor.”</p><p> </p><p>“How old?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums. “Eight - nine years?”</p><p> </p><p>“Huh.”</p><p> </p><p>Their bikes are exactly where they’d left them.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s a little disappointed to find Oxford’s reputation for bike-stealing-capital fall short. She’ll have to do it, <em> again</em>. Publicly embarrass herself, again.</p><p> </p><p>It’d be worth it though, to get a little more of the story.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle takes mercy on her and begins to wheel hers so they can talk.</p><p> </p><p>“When Konstantin found me - ”</p><p> </p><p>Eve perks up. </p><p> </p><p>“- he took me to Oxford, all of the time. Like a holiday - you know?” she says cheerfully. “It’s nice, I think. The buildings are - beautiful. Not far from London. Good shopping.”</p><p> </p><p>It made Eve wish she’d come here more, insisted on Niko bringing her more, asked Niko to tell her more about his student days, his rowing competitions, his maths prizes, his life. Not having him at all now only emphasized the empty spaces she’d let him leave back when, the spaces she’d filled with her <em> own </em> life, her <em> own </em> problems, her <em> own </em>demons.</p><p> </p><p>“London is - nice too, fun,” Villanelle shrugs, “but - big. <em> Loud</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Perfect for you, then.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle side-eyes her. “Shut up.”</p><p> </p><p>“No - go ahead,” Eve smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“Gregory - he is like a <em> dedushka</em>.” Eve makes a face so Villanelle <em> tsks </em>. “Like a cute, little grandpa.”</p><p> </p><p>“He <em> is </em>pretty cute,” Eve finds herself grinning, biting at her mouth to stop herself from laughing when Villanelle turns her bike and taps her front tyre in warning against her own.</p><p> </p><p>“He wasn’t so cute when he worked for the <em> SDECE</em>. I will not tell you his body count.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares.</p><p> </p><p>“But now,” Villanelle pings her bell, “he likes to make his perfume and live his happy life. Things change.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve sniffs. “That was - ? I thought that was just - bullshit.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, he makes very nice things. Perfume. Soap. Old-fashioned things, you know? He is very clever, very successful. He has another one, a - <em> parfumerie </em>-" Eve watches the word practically roll off Villanelle’s tongue in crisp, perfect French, figuring that maybe she’d have studied languages after all, “one in London. And one in Paris.”</p><p> </p><p>“So he just - moonlights as a perfumer and then - sells other shit for an extra buck?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure. He is - multi-talented,” she concedes.</p><p> </p><p>It suddenly hits her then. <em> In Paris. </em>She glances to her, pleased, as though she’d cracked the missing piece to the puzzle.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that where you buy your perfumes then?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's big, interested eyes pin her. “Why? Do you like the way I smell? You never told me,” she says carefully, somewhere between a tease and a plea.</p><p> </p><p>The sun feels hot then, relentless against the back of her neck, her forehead. She takes a deep, shaking breath and remembers Villanelle’s scent, the one that had left her kitchen smelling like sandalwood for days, both times, the one that had lingered as she’d made her way off the bus, fresh and powerful in equal measure.</p><p> </p><p>She remembers <em> La Villanelle </em>and its empty bottle, still in the cupboard of her bathroom sink.</p><p> </p><p>It’s clear Villanelle thinks she has the upper hand because she practically beams now, eyebrows high and dimples nestled in her cheeks against a pursed, expectant mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“I think Gregory’s good at his job,” she settles on noncommittally, secretly delighted when Villanelle gives her a sour look. It bolsters her. She carries on, unable to help herself. “I think he must be pretty special, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's mouth quirks.</p><p> </p><p>She clenches her fists around her handlebars for purchase, careful to keep the pedal from snagging on her ankle.</p><p> </p><p>“...to get to call you Oksana.”</p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle’s jaw work. Watches her eyes fall to the bike basket. Watches her face soften and then harden, and then soften again, just around the eyes, almost imperceptible. </p><p> </p><p>“He does what he wants.”</p><p> </p><p>That wasn’t true. Villanelle clearly let him, Eve had seen her drop her facade the way she only ever did when they were alone, the way she’d done in tiny increments since Bristol, the way she was doing now, quiet and jaded and sad.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t like it,” Eve says gently. “I know you don’t.” A breath. “Why?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks at her. Her cheeks and tips of her ears glow, from embarrassment or irritation, Eve can’t tell. </p><p> </p><p>She’s done it now though - let the proverbial chips fall, and it physically hurt her to see where they’d land.</p><p> </p><p>Instead of allowing them to, Villanelle rolls her bike onward, leading Eve two paces ahead, back to the rental shop in total silence. </p><p> </p><p>It takes Eve two strides for every one of Villanelle’s long, easy ones so she’s both physically and emotionally frazzled by the time they’ve returned the bikes and settled the receipt.</p><p> </p><p>She drops her wallet in her handbag and holds the door, trying for enthusiasm at the prospect of a shopping trip, just to keep the peace.</p><p> </p><p>She tugs Villanelle towards the high street, welcoming its bright, distracting colours and chattering crowds.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Letting you - I don’t know - shop 'til you drop? Torture me slowly for hours on end, outfit-by-outfit until we fall out and one of us begs to go home?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle cracks a tentative smile. “Really?"</p><p> </p><p>"Really."</p><p> </p><p>"We should buy more food, water, important things. We will need some extra clothes but - Eve, I’m not going to put you in things you will be uncomfortable in.”</p><p> </p><p>“Again.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle raises a brow.</p><p> </p><p>“In clothes that’ll make me uncomfortable - <em> again</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle catches on even though it's a lie - the things she'd bought two years earlier had fit like a second skin on Eve, made her feel sexy, womanly, felt beautiful against her bare body, both dry and then soaked.</p><p> </p><p>“We both know you looked very nice in that dress, Eve,” she says softly.</p><p> </p><p>The moment lingers.</p><p> </p><p>It sears.</p><p> </p><p>Eve pulls them into Zara Home, welcoming the release from it when Villanelle lets out a disgusted, incredulous groan as she's dragged in.</p><p> </p><p>She leads them over towards a huge shelf of soft furnishings: blankets, cushions, towels.</p><p> </p><p>It feels weirdly domestic. She used to do stuff like this with Niko, Elena on occasion, when they’d spend most of their time in Ikea competing over meatballs and driving home with too many candles and nothing useful.</p><p> </p><p>To do it with Villanelle is strange and uncomfortable and practical and - easy. </p><p> </p><p>She sighs, just because, leaning against the shelving unit. "Let's grab the bare essentials and go."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle fingers a soft, expensive Afghan-woven cover, palm flat against the delicate knots, eyes on it and not on her.</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches her fingertips work, gentle, attentive, idle. She watches them work and feels nerves crawl up her back. </p><p> </p><p>“You have a very nice body, you should show it off more. You look nice in everything. I will buy you dresses, beautiful things, but you won’t let me.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve scoffs. She looks down at herself: linen chinos, cotton tee, sandals. </p><p> </p><p>Her heart pounds.</p><p> </p><p>“Want to know how much these cost?” she lifts a foot.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shakes her head. “No. They are -”</p><p> </p><p>She does her best to hold back, Eve can tell - her entire face turns crimson, fists clenched into the blanket.</p><p> </p><p>“Go on, have at it. Do your worst.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve -”</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me. You look like you're dying to. I won’t get mad.”</p><p> </p><p>“You will get mad.”</p><p> </p><p>"I won't,” Eve says with the straightest face she can muster, following as Villanelle drops unnecessary things into the shared basket - candles and soap, a pair of mugs, cutlery, things that make Eve wonder just how long their trip would take and whether at some point, they might end up off piste.</p><p> </p><p>“You will. You will get grumpy and - stompy, and throw your big, angry temper tantrum. I know you, Eve. But if you really want," she shrugs, throws a pointed look, "and you promise you won't be mad, I can be honest. I am always honest with you. You are - very beautiful, you know this," she says carefully, tentatively. "Please do not think I -"</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Villanelle</em>."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sighs. Cocks her hip and gives her a once-over. </p><p> </p><p>"Sometimes you wear - <em> this</em>," she gestures to her entire outfit, "and I think, before, in another life, maybe you were a school librarian who spent a lot of her time with loud, overweight, middle-aged German tourists," she stares at Eve's sandals, "without the socks, sure. Uniqlo has some practical things - perfect colour palette. For old men. And women with no self-identity."</p><p> </p><p>There it was. </p><p> </p><p>She spins on her heel and heads for the clothes, absolutely fuming as she dots around, pulling random t-shirts and jumpers and cut-offs from shelves and hangers in a stifled, stubborn frenzy, praying they’re in her size, flushed as she grabs underwear and a spare pair of pyjamas away from Villanelle’s amused, apologetic eyes. </p><p> </p><p>She dumps the huge, messy pile on the counter. </p><p> </p><p>The cashier girl stares.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle smiles sweetly, handing over the homewear. “We are - in a hurry.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve glares. </p><p> </p><p><em> God</em>, she was furious. </p><p> </p><p>How dare she! She had style, <em> oodles </em>of it. She knew exactly who she was - practical, comfortable, smart, understated. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t a self-centred egomaniac, so desperate for validation she needed to spend all her blood-money on Dior or Chanel or wherever the hell it was Villanelle shopped.</p><p> </p><p>Which is exactly where they end up.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shoves her into Ted Baker, stringing half-hearted, mumbled apologies as she picks up a jacket here and a blouse there, something that looks an awful lot like a pencil skirt, a dress, floral-print trousers, a coat.</p><p> </p><p>Eve hauls their shopping bags. She’s sweating. She’s pissed.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on,” Villanelle snaps her fingers, hurrying towards the changing rooms and ripping back a curtain. She gestures with her arm. “You are welcome. I will wait here.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not -”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, you are. I will wait.”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle -”</p><p> </p><p>“Try it on,” Villanelle hands her the clothes. There’s silk there - it slips against Eve’s bare arms, slides against something softer, satin or velvet or cashmere.</p><p> </p><p>The price tag flashes up at her.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t -”</p><p> </p><p>“Try it,” Villanelle says gently, softly. She licks her lips, smiles with so much encouragement it’s impossible to stay angry, not when Villanelle looks at her with genuine apology but also child-like giddiness Eve struggles to ignore.</p><p> </p><p>She puffs out her cheeks and takes the pile reluctantly, narrowing her eyes. “You’re such a dick.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Asshole.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am an asshole,” Villanelle shrugs, leaning against the mirror casually.</p><p> </p><p>Eve peeks through the curtain. “Are you just going to -”</p><p> </p><p>“Stand here? Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not getting anything?”</p><p> </p><p>“I have many things. I pack well,” she says smugly. “I will wait here,” she says again, “for the fashion show. Hurry up.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle, in fact, isn't there when Eve emerges. </p><p> </p><p>Eve stares down at the dress in her hands, the one that costs more than her rent but fits seamlessly, forest green with a one-shoulder cut and short hem, tight but comfortable, devastatingly gorgeous. </p><p> </p><p>She hangs up the things she's not sold on and slips back into her sandals, finger tucked into a pair of black kitten heels.</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle?”</p><p> </p><p>“Come in.”</p><p> </p><p>She steps into the adjacent cubicle.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle spins around, disappointed. “Oh. I thought you will show me. You don’t like anything?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve holds up the dress sheepishly and then the shoes. She almost laughs at the way Villanelle’s eyes light up, hazel and bright as her smile widens.</p><p> </p><p>She finishes adjusting the black bodycon top she’d picked.</p><p> </p><p>Eve sighs. “Couldn’t help yourself?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks over herself in the mirror in a three-sixty turn, smoothing out the sleeve. “Beautiful, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve wants to walk right out. Wants to roll her eyes, swap her fancy clothes for her Zara bags and rent another van for the remainder of the trip, just so she doesn't keep getting sassed.</p><p> </p><p>But before she gets to run off, before she gets to snap back with something dry and sardonic, her eyes drop to Villanelle’s fingers.</p><p> </p><p>She wishes they hadn't.</p><p> </p><p>Her stomach curls.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s fingers twitch and her hand falls away. She takes a deep dramatic breath, looking over Eve’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>The scar looks fresh. Raw. Poorly done. </p><p> </p><p>She steps into the cubicle. “What’s this?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rolls her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Eve lifts her cautious hand before Villanelle can step back, skittish. She insists, cupping an elbow to hold her still. </p><p> </p><p>It’s the first time they’ve touched, Bath notwithstanding. First time on good terms.</p><p> </p><p>It feels significant somehow, and at the same time, not at all. Villanelle’s breath quickens.</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell happened?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle swallows. “Work.”</p><p> </p><p>“Work,” Eve sighs. She can’t help it when her thumb presses over the knotted flesh just like Villanelle had done to her, the skin rough over tense muscle underneath. "When?" </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle twitches in her hold. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s - unlike you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is it?” Villanelle’s eyes flash.</p><p> </p><p>Eve feels that familiar guilt, that gut-sinking horror she’d felt in Paris, the moment of total realisation and regret and fear and heart-break, Villanelle’s life gushing right out and into her hands.</p><p> </p><p>She circles the jagged stitch once, twice, fingers splayed across the wound.</p><p> </p><p>And then Villanelle pulls away and her chest squeezes.</p><p> </p><p>“Whoever patched you up did a piss poor job,” she tries but Villanelle doesn’t laugh. She pushes her tongue into her teeth. “You don’t need to do that stuff, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs.</p><p> </p><p>“Not ever.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks at her. The harsh, bare light falls on her. It should make her look pale, tired, gaunt just like Eve had thought herself moments ago, but all it does is illuminate her fully, her freckles stark against her smooth skin, cheeks ruddy from the summer sun.</p><p> </p><p>Eve sees every tiny part of her up close, in real time, and it stings.</p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes it's beyond my control.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not any more. Just us now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” Villanelle nods. “It’s different. Now.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve leans into the wall. She glances at the different angles of Villanelle - her profile, back, front, glinting off the mirrors. She looks human and flawed and infuriatingly perfect.</p><p> </p><p>“Now you get to dress me in these,” she gestures to her dress again and Villanelle finally cracks a wobbly, watery smile. </p><p> </p><p>The heavy thing inside her lifts.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, you are very lucky. Shopping, ice-cream, my amazing personality - and Magic FM,” she says sarcastically, giving Eve an appalled look. </p><p> </p><p>“You could almost say it's - worth it?” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods seriously. “Throw in another ice-cream and I will consider.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to go rob a bank,” she glances down at her dress, stepping out of the cubicle just before Villanelle moves to take her clothes off. </p><p> </p><p>She feels Villanelle reach back out through the curtain for her. </p><p> </p><p>“You will buy dinner,” she says so bossily, Eve scoffs. “Give me that,” she grabs the clothes off her, ushering her away. “I will buy this, okay? Oh, and if you are going to rob a bank, only take what you can carry and don't get caught. I will need help getting all of this back to the van."</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares.</p><p> </p><p>"Kidding, Eve, we will have to work on your sense of humour. Wait for me," she smiles, nodding to the sofa beside the floor-length mirror, "and then - dinner? Are you hungry? I could eat a horse."</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>On hiatus 22/06/2020.</p><p>Taken a few weeks break from Twitter/social media to recharge a bit and hopefully bulk-write several chapters for a better flow. The fic's storyboarded from start to finish so it's definitely in the pipeline, just taking a bit longer than planned due to burn-out/personal life!</p><p>I promise there's a lot of good Villaneve-heavy stuff coming up that should tie nicely into S1/S2/S3 for canon compliance. </p><p>I really appreciate all the hits/kudos/comments, it's been super encouraging after a dud few weeks! I'm sure I speak for all writers when I say we live off feedback and validation, particularly for multi-chapter fic, so thank you, thank you, thank you! &lt;3 :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Oxford</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Please read</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After the Twitter shitstorm the last 48 hours and the general negativity that seems to oscillate every few weeks, it's been pretty exhausting and I've struggled to separate real life from the characters we all love.</p><p>This fic was planned out to be a whopper. The entire thing is completely story-boarded down to the details - it took a lot of work to plan and I've had so much fun writing it this far! </p><p>At the end of the day, the reasons I fell in love with Killing Eve are Villanelle and Eve, their dynamic, the story and the chemistry.</p><p>Are people still interested in this? Next two chapters were incredibly soft to write and totally ready to post. Would everyone still want to tune in for a long fic or oneshots instead?</p><p>I'm happy to write - however sporadically. So many of you have been so kind and engaged and it's been a pleasure. ✌🧡</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle from across the table, polite but brief as she lists off what she wants: bruschetta to start, followed by seafood linguine and Eton mess. Oh, and a bottle of white - whatever was French and expensive.</p><p> </p><p>Eve fumbles through her own order, throwing caution to the wind with the lobster bisque because - fancy - and the chocolate mousse, because, why not?</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle leans back in her seat. Appraises her with tired but interested eyes, lingering on the off-white of her new blouse and then lower, where the high waist of her fitted paisley trousers meets soft, tucked-in silk.</p><p> </p><p>“You look -”</p><p> </p><p>Eve tries not to shrink.</p><p> </p><p>Between Ted Baker and Lauren, she’d somehow ended up with a whole new wardrobe - blouses and chinos, a new leather jacket, a jumpsuit, stilettos, a gillet. Entirely inappropriate things that wouldn’t suit a road-trip, much less work or the setup of her everyday life.</p><p> </p><p>Then there was the gorgeous, understated, made-for-her dress, whose price tag continued to gnaw at her despite Villanelle’s enthusiasm, her insistence on taking the whole lot.</p><p> </p><p>She glances at Villanelle and finds her smiling, soft, small, familiar.</p><p> </p><p>“Uncomfortable?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nice,” Villanelle says gently.</p><p> </p><p>“I feel uncomfortable.” </p><p> </p><p>The trousers are tight. They’re lovely. They’re tight.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t look uncomfortable. You look perfect.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve scoffs. “And you look -” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle wears a light-pink flannel with skinny jeans. The material sits loose on her shoulders, sleeves rolled at her elbows.</p><p> </p><p>Eve knows exactly how it would feel between her fingers, worn but homely, how it would sit pressed to the round of her cheek, the curve of her ear, the way Niko’s often had, his chest broad and hard beneath her on the sofa.</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t missed the feeling but memories of it still zapped through her, quick and sore.</p><p> </p><p>Translucent baby hairs curl at the corners of Villanelle's hairline, the rest of it held up in a loose bun by a clip. She looks young. Relaxed.</p><p> </p><p>“Casual,” she finally settles on. She watches Villanelle shrug, fingertip circling over the white tablecloth nonchalantly. “It’s not - I’m just not really - used to seeing you like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle purses her mouth. Raises her eyebrows.</p><p> </p><p>“No?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean - first overalls, now this? Hardly runway material.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am always runway material.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve manages a laugh. “Are you saving the runway stuff for later? Birmingham? Fashion capital,” she says sarcastically. “You’ve gone rogue.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Villanelle pulls a face. “They are just clothes, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are they? So it’s okay for me to be balls-deep in Chanel, as long as you’re the one fetching sizes?” she smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“You liked it.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s expensive.”</p><p> </p><p>“Looking good is expensive,” Villanelle points out. “You look good. You should treat yourself to things, you deserve to have nice things.”</p><p> </p><p>The waiter comes. He sets the starters down. As Villanelle dives into hers, Eve wishes she’d ordered one too, instead of having to grapple awkwardly for conversation.</p><p> </p><p>“So is this like a weird role-reversal-type thing where I become the chic-as-shit assassin and you’re the -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle smirks. She gulps back her bite and sets down her fork. “The what?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know. The smart-casual, quick-as-a-whip, intuitive, overly-confident -”</p><p> </p><p>“- stubborn -” Villanelle adds playfully.</p><p> </p><p>“Stubborn,” Eve rolls her eyes, “almost-never-wrong detective?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods, humming in amusement as she takes a sip of her wine. “Is that what we are, still? Detective and assassin?” Her voice scrapes, like wheels on gravel, low and dark, and Eve takes her own drink, lets the tartness slide down her throat as she fidgets with the glass stem.</p><p> </p><p>“I think the line’s a bit blurred, don’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>“A bit, sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve licks her lips. She doesn’t mean it to be an invitation, but Villanelle’s sliding over a spare bruschetta before she can object and it’s nice to have something for her hands to do, for her mouth to do instead of letting her get away with crappy smalltalk.</p><p> </p><p>She crunches loudly, the olive oil thick down her chin, the tomato sweet and rich as Villanelle passes her a napkin.</p><p> </p><p>She chases the bite with more wine.</p><p> </p><p>“So you’re not into clothes any more.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks down at herself. “I am,” she wavers.</p><p> </p><p>She looks beautiful. Eve’s never really seen her look anything but, even when she's covered in blood and sweat and defeat. </p><p> </p><p>She looks fresh, in that clean, easy way, no frills, no lace or garish colour, just simple lines and comfort. Her matte gold earrings glitter amongst strands of blonde. A thin, gold chain gleams between the lines of her open collar.</p><p> </p><p>But she’s different. Softer.</p><p> </p><p>“But less?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Villanelle practically whines. “Is it important?”</p><p> </p><p>“Clothes? <em> God, </em> no,” Eve glares. “Not for me. For you? I guess I always saw what you wore as a direct extension of you? The pinks and the glitter and prints and - a lot of just - <em> loud</em>. This doesn’t -” she waves her hand to motion to Villanelle’s outfit, “seem like you.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle folds her arms. Her jaw flickers. </p><p> </p><p>Eve feels bad.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I have changed.”</p><p> </p><p>“No - that’s not -” she sighs. “I like what you’re wearing. You look -" God, she really can’t think of a word other than <em> comfortable</em>, except in relation to Villanelle, it feels less of an insult and more of a reassurance. “I like the way you look.”</p><p> </p><p>It seems to do the trick. Villanelle mellows. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome,” Eve laughs in disbelief. “It’s nice,” she says, “not being upstaged for once.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle quickly rolls up a piece of complimentary bread and chucks it at her, chucking another when Eve grabs her full glass and threatens to retaliate.</p><p> </p><p>The waiter’s the only saving grace.</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares into her bisque dubiously and wrinkles her nose.</p><p> </p><p>“Looks a bit like borscht.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s soup,” Villanelle leans down to blow on her pasta. She’s not patient enough so she gulps it whilst it’s steaming, shuddering as it scalds her. </p><p> </p><p>She’d need to work on her table manners, not that Eve had any intention of helping her.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, soup’s not great.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Too - soupy.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t like soup,” Villanelle glares at her. "And you ordered bisque."</p><p> </p><p>“Um. Yeah? I didn't -"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sighs and swaps their plates over, eyes full of mirth as Eve tries not to feel embarrassed.</p><p> </p><p>"It’s just - it's basically mashed up food right? Like - baby food. Or shepherd’s pie. <em> Gross</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s spoon hovers mid-air. “<em>What? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t like shepherd’s pie?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve remembers her kitchen then, the way Villanelle had wolfed down day-old mash potato hastily nuked in the microwave.</p><p> </p><p>She remembers the saccharine politeness of her and then the bitter, acrid sting as Villanelle had pressed her to the fridge, knife-point to her chest.</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods somberly, flashing her eyes as she cringes. “<em> Oh</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>The sound of Villanelle’s spoon clinking into Eve's bisque fills the silence. Villanelle’s telling her something without telling her and Eve tenses in her seat, fork clean and untouched at the side of her plate.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve, I - Okay. What happened with Gemma was - you know,” she says around a mouthful. Gulps. “Collateral damage.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve feels her molars rub. She drinks her wine. </p><p> </p><p>“I am not exactly proud of it - I only wanted to - I don’t know, scare them a little? Play with them a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>Christ.</p><p> </p><p>“And after Anna and Max and -” she puffs out her cheeks and then releases, “that was - not good. Not how I imagined it would go. Very bad, actually. The worst. So - doing the same to Niko? To you?” she says softly.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s chest shakes as she breathes.</p><p> </p><p>“I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Ever. He was out of bounds, I know that.”</p><p> </p><p>Her instincts were still good then, the adamant insistence - right from the start - that Villanelle would never so much as touch him. The glorious justice, relief and then immediate fury she’d felt when Carolyn had confirmed Dasha’s involvement. </p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Do you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I knew that. I knew all along.”</p><p> </p><p>“I only wanted - actually, I wanted the recipe to his shepherd’s pie.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. In the garage. He gave it to me. I know the secret ingredient is Worcestershire sauce.” </p><p> </p><p>Eve almost chokes on her drink. It sticks in her throat, stinging her eyes. It sticks the way emotion would, fraught behind her eyeballs. She finds herself tearing up, throbbing with nostalgia.</p><p> </p><p>“You went to all that trouble to get the ingredients to a shepherds pie?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods. “I thought you would like it. I was going to make it for you, like you did for me. In Rome, maybe. Maybe some other time. Not anymore - obviously. You hate it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t -”</p><p> </p><p>She hated it. She hated shepherd’s pie with a burning passion, the texture, the colour, the bland sameness of it clinging to her gullet. She hated how often Niko made it, tucked into her lunchbox for work or packaged up to take to the park. Always with a post-it. Always with a <em> love-you </em> or an <em> enjoy-it </em> or a <em> Bill-can't-have-any! </em></p><p> </p><p>Most of all, she hated the memory of it, the reminder of how shit her own cooking was, how little time she made for it, how little effort, how little change.</p><p> </p><p>She presses her palm into her lap and feels her wedding ring dig into her thigh.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t hate it. It’s - complicated.”</p><p> </p><p>“Pie?” Villanelle smiles. “It is very easy. Boring. But very easy.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think Polish cuisine has much to offer."</p><p> </p><p>“Very similar to Russian.”</p><p> </p><p>“Pathological tendency to pickle things?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” Villanelle grins. “A lot of mayonnaise, also.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve finally tastes Villanelle's pasta. Perfect. Not soupy.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you make much Russian food?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shakes her head. Her bowl's almost clean. Eve races to finish so she doesn’t have to answer questions with a stuffed mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“I am not very good at it. Piroshki? Maybe. I have tried once or twice, they were like shit. Not the worst,” she tries, preening a little, “my little brother - he makes the worst.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s head snaps up.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sets her cutlery aside. She taps her nail against the spoon's end. Her mouth winds tight at the corners, Eve can see the twitch of it, the way Villanelle holds her tension now all too familiar.</p><p> </p><p>She slides her fork across her empty plate and rests her forearms on the table. She tries to keep her voice gentle, free of bite. The wine helps.</p><p> </p><p>“Carolyn mentioned you’d gone home. When Niko -” she fidgets. “You went to...Grizmet?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not my home.”</p><p> </p><p>“No. But your family’s there?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not any more.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs her eyebrows. Remains evasive. </p><p> </p><p>Again, the conversation feels a bit like navigating landmines. Eve had already detonated a few, hardly an expert in communicating with Villanelle given her track record.</p><p> </p><p>But here they were. And what was the saying - a kind word opened iron doors? She was dying for it to open.</p><p> </p><p>She reaches for the bottle, topping Villanelle up, and then herself. It feels like the wrong time for a clink.</p><p> </p><p>“How'd it feel? To be back there.”</p><p> </p><p>Something in Villanelle shifts. She takes her drink, the wine clear and shimmering inside the sweating glass as she presses her nose to it and then her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you - miss them? Was it - did they - were they -”</p><p> </p><p>Shit.</p><p> </p><p>“How did it feel," Villanelle says slowly.</p><p> </p><p>Definitely the wrong question. Stick to facts.</p><p> </p><p>“Disappointing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>“My mother still has very shitty hair.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve frowns. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Had</em>,” Villanelle scoffs. “To go with her shitty attitude. And her shitty house.” </p><p> </p><p>When she says nothing, Villanelle leans back in her seat with an almost-flourish. “Do you want to psychoanalyse me? Is that it? What was my relationship with my mother like, blah, blah, blah. Did it hurt when she left me? Did it make me what I am? Is that what you are wondering?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Eve says quickly. "I was just - trying to make conversation.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle tips her head to the side. “My mother was a shitty person. Very selfish. Very angry, all of the time. <em>Bitter</em>. She did not love. I don’t think she knew how, not anybody. Only herself. She was a liar. A manipulator. She did not feel. You would feel something? If you abandoned your daughter and she came to your house twenty years later to see you - you would feel. Yes?" Villanelle shakes. Eve can see her hands, unsteady by her plate. "Not her. No feeling, just - <em> nothing</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve presses her wedding ring into the soft flesh of her finger. She lets it dig.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle huffs. “Maybe we are not so different.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s not true.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve had experienced her fair share of family drama - the passing of her dad in her teens, the inheritance of a father-in-law who harboured deep-seated racism and a contempt for her marriage, her own mother, who remained distant, geographically and otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>She recognised the fear of “becoming mom". Didn't most women? </p><p> </p><p>Maybe Villanelle had more demons than most but in knowing her, in being with her, Eve was already confident Villanelle and her mother were like day and night. What used to be an elusive psychopath was now a lonely, complicated woman, with all her dangerous grey in-betweens.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle felt. That much was clear. She felt and felt, all wrapped up in a neat, little package, waiting to burst.</p><p> </p><p>“You contain multitudes.”</p><p> </p><p>The shadow in Villanelle’s eyes lifts. “Bob Dylan?”</p><p> </p><p>“Walt Whitman,” Eve laughs softly. “Aren’t you too young to know who Bob Dylan is?”</p><p> </p><p>“You're right, he is probably more your generation. Baby boomers, no?”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle smiles at her. “My little brother is a big fan. Elton. Bowie. <em> Big </em>fan of Elton. The biggest.” </p><p> </p><p>Her smile grows. </p><p> </p><p>It’s so good to see, so welcomed, Eve embraces it with open, relieved arms and wants more.</p><p> </p><p>“Elton in Grizmet - talk about a wide-reaching audience. Sounds like a kid with good taste.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle blows a raspberry. “Eve. You are so <em> old</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“You listen to Roxette. You literally have no say in this.”</p><p> </p><p>“Roxette is - beautiful. Emotional.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Emotional</em>,” Eve laughs. It gets away from her then, when Villanelle sinks a little, mulling over her wine in another somber wave. “Sorry - God. If I’d know you were such a huge fan -”</p><p> </p><p>“It brings good memories.”</p><p> </p><p>“Roxette?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Don’t worry, I do not plan to buzz-cut my hair and invest in shoulder-pads -”</p><p> </p><p>“- you’d probably suit them -”</p><p> </p><p>“True, but - she is good. Konstantin - A long time ago, we were in the car. The song was on the radio, it was - you know,” she bobs her head, “listen to your heart, when he’s calling for you,” she sings slightly off-key.</p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t have it in her to point it out. “Yeah, I know it. Great guitar solo, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“The best. It was nice. Listening to it with him.”</p><p> </p><p>It added up. The ride in the van, the grey cloud that had settled over Villanelle when that song came on. She wasn’t sappy, she was just heart-broken. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s -” Eve chews her lip. “Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle swallows. She casts her eyes out onto the cobbled plaza where the evening lights come to life. </p><p> </p><p>They set everything in pretty sheets of amber.</p><p> </p><p>The candle-flame flickers over her. Eve watches it burn.</p><p> </p><p>“So - Elton, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle continues to stare out at the meandering tourists. She takes no note of the rising goose flesh on her arms.</p><p> </p><p>Eve wants to reach out and cover her.</p><p> </p><p>“Is your brother like, a die-hard fan - wigs and dress-up or - does he just dabble?”</p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle’s profile, the apple of her cheek rising, her eyes crinkling.</p><p> </p><p>“Bor’ka? Die-hard.”</p><p> </p><p>She takes out her phone to show her photos: one of him bouncing on the bed, plastic mic in one hand and feather boa in the other; one with an orange wig and star-shaped sunglasses; another of him surrounded by what Eve figures are Piroshki, slightly charred and sunken. </p><p> </p><p>The last one is her favourite. She takes the phone to zoom in, focussing first on Bor’ka’s grin and then on Villanelle, arm extended to take the selfie, smile tentative but eyes shining, undeniably happy.</p><p> </p><p>Eve lets out an easy breath, a half-laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“That's sweet. You guys look - happy."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle takes the phone back.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you think he’s - ?”</p><p> </p><p>“...no,” Villanelle narrows her eyes in thought. “Maybe? Just - care-free. Hopeful.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah? That sounds nice.”</p><p> </p><p>“When you are surrounded by pig shit and tractors, I think you have to be.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve thinks back to Poland. Her chest twinges. All the times she’d spent visiting Niko’s parents, waking up to the sound of cockerels and the smell of fresh bread. She can almost picture tiny Oksana in the derelict rurality of it all.</p><p> </p><p>“Sounds like you got on like a house on fire.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle flinches, hard but fleeting. “He uh - he is annoying. Drama queen, like his sister,” her mouth twitches. “Nice kid. Both of them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Who else?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle tells her about her older brother Pyotr, about the festival and the prizes she’d won, recollecting memories with a giddy innocence, about Fyodor and his trashy girlfriend, about the money she’d left for Bor’ka to get out.</p><p> </p><p>Eve savours each little glimpse like a keepsake, precious and intimate, humbled to be privy to them.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle doesn’t mention her mother again, and Eve doesn’t push. She files it away like all the other things, wondering when she’ll next see them resurface.</p><p> </p><p>The dessert comes.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a nice distraction. A nice break, Villanelle’s eyes greedy as she reaches over for Eve’s mousse, taking quick, sneaky bites as Eve tries to get her own back.</p><p> </p><p>She gets a good dollop of meringue before Villanelle tugs the plate away.</p><p> </p><p>“Carolyn says you make excellent dumplings.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs. “For someone who says very little, Carolyn has a loud fucking mouth.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. So - do you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Better than your Piroshki,” she says smugly, tapping Villanelle’s spoon with her own when she makes an attempt at more of her mousse. </p><p> </p><p>“Who taught you?”</p><p> </p><p>“My cousin.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nepotism?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, absolutely. But also - I’m actually not bad with my hands.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grins. “There is a joke in there somewhere, Eve. I am too tired to make it.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs again. "Then don't.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are too amazing to take kitchen work. Did you used to make dumplings for Niko?”</p><p> </p><p>The words land like a popped balloon. </p><p> </p><p>Eve finishes her last bite. Smooths down her blouse. “No. He - uh, he was a fussy eater. Indian, mostly.”</p><p> </p><p>“And shepherd’s pie,” Villanelle says gently. </p><p> </p><p>The balloon inflates a little.</p><p> </p><p>“And shepherd’s pie.”</p><p> </p><p>Her ring finger throbs and throbs. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s looking at her in that quiet way of hers, quiet and patiently curious as she reaches across the table and lets her have the last of the wine.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“What is your mother like?”</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus,” Eve sigh-laughs. </p><p> </p><p>When was the last time she’d spoken to her? Shortly after Niko? That had been well over a month ago. And before that? Seldom and briefly, in passing, in a hurry, always rushed. </p><p> </p><p>The time-zones hadn’t helped and then the culture clash, their fundamental differences, the disappointment Eve knew came from caring but never quite warmed to affection. “Uh - not quite as bad as yours, from the sound of things.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle continues to look at her, interested.</p><p> </p><p>“She's very - Korean. Anal. She lost her mind when I told her I'd signed up for crim-psych instead of pre-med. Or law. God. Imagine.”</p><p> </p><p>“You? In a suit? It’s not very hard to imagine.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve scoffs. “She's stubborn - I definitely know where I get it from," she nods. "My dad hasn’t been around for a long time, so it’s just her back in Connecticut. She’s a good mom, she is, she’s just - she likes things her way. Tradition, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sounds nice,” Villanelle smiles softly.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, it is. It’s - fine. Annoying, but - it is what it is. She freaked out when I married a white guy, then she worshipped the ground Niko walked on and then -” <em> And then it broke her heart</em>, she thinks.</p><p> </p><p>“She cares.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are lucky.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve swallows. </p><p> </p><p>She’d left her mom a long time ago, first for college and then for London. And she’d left Bill and Elena, and then MI5 and Niko. She was good at leaving things, turns out.</p><p> </p><p>“You should call her.”</p><p> </p><p>She should be pissed to be taking relationship advice from possibly the least qualified person on the planet. But Villanelle says it again, sweeter and kinder, and Eve feels the weight of it, the words seeped in regret and tenderness and genuine care, piled inside her aching throat.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle coughs. “What about your dad?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve raises her eyebrow incredulously. She hadn't signed up for a game of twenty questions. “What about <em> yours</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle holds up her hands in defense. “I think all of my issues are related to my mother. 'Mummy-issues' you call it, no?"</p><p> </p><p>Eve waits for a reference to herself, a joke, a dig, but Villanelle lets her off. Not without a suggestive look first though, hidden behind good intentions as she tells Eve briefly about her dad, who she only had fond memories of, tinged in childhood and naivety.</p><p> </p><p>“I think I basically married my dad.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle blanches. “Ew.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. No, really, I think Niko sort of - filled that hole?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a gagging sound.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, whatever. You know what I mean. Walking cliché - girl loses dad, girl mopes, girl marries dad-double, girl realises mistake…”</p><p> </p><p>“You think it was a mistake?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think marriage is a social construct. Outdated.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wow. So cynical.”</p><p> </p><p>“Realistic.”</p><p> </p><p>“True,” Villanelle clicks her tongue. “You are right. Most marriages end in divorce and people still do it - at least once. Maybe for the wrong reasons. Maybe they don't know each other well.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not for you, then.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums noncommittally. Eve tries to catch her gaze, to prod her further, but she’s already scouring the rest of the outdoor seating area for the waiter. </p><p> </p><p>Eve slips her card as soon as the menu’s down, paying before Villanelle has a chance to insist.</p><p> </p><p>“Back in a sec.”</p><p> </p><p>The bathroom’s too-dark and feels like the lobby of a pretentious fashion house. Still, she always did do her best thinking there.</p><p> </p><p>She emerges from the cubicle.</p><p> </p><p>Her reflection stares back. It looks - well, not entirely terrible.</p><p> </p><p>The blouse is nice. The trousers too, form-fitting and colourful but understated. She looks a little fresher than she did days ago, the bags long-gone, skin brighter.</p><p> </p><p>She feels new. Like she’d shed her skin and come into her own. </p><p> </p><p>Old parts of her still cling, in body and spirit - her family - what was left of it - and memories of Niko, her message and call history, her phone gallery of Bill and Kenny, her rings.</p><p> </p><p>She slides her iPhone out of her pocket, sends her mom a message and turns it off before regret kicks in.</p><p> </p><p>The stone of her engagement ring gleams and gleams, its gold trim dulled with age.</p><p> </p><p>She used to like the feel of it, heavy and nestled beside the plain band. Used to like looking at it, touching it, letting Niko kiss her knuckles reverently.</p><p> </p><p>Now it feels too-big and too-gauche, standing for all her failures and unhappiness, a half-hearted cling-on to a past life.</p><p> </p><p>She wets her hands and slides them both off. </p><p> </p><p>For all their weighing on her, they sit small in her palm.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe it was distasteful to leave them at the sink of a Michelin-star bathroom. Maybe she was supposed to give them a send-off, a Hollywood goodbye, a toss into a lake, something cinematic.</p><p> </p><p>She flicks the disposable hand towel in the basket.</p><p> </p><p>There’s something bittersweet about how anticlimactic it all is - washing her hands of her marriage, quite literally.</p><p> </p><p>The rings stay stacked by the faucet.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t look at them.</p><p> </p><p>She won't change her mind.</p><p> </p><p>She just keeps walking and walking until she’s back at the table.</p><p> </p><p>If Villanelle notices, she doesn’t say.</p><p> </p><p>She’s already got her jacket on and chivalrously holds out Eve’s own. It’s tempting, but Eve dresses herself.</p><p> </p><p>“I have a surprise for you,” Villanelle says at last. </p><p> </p><p>She wriggles her eyebrows and makes a gesture for Eve to lead the way. She sounds excited. Coy.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s stomach both clenches and flips. “Let me guess. If you tell me,” she starts off ominously, but the sentence speaks for itself.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle gives her a side-glance, mouth split in a smile, a skip in her step.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. Something like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Part of her feels dread. The other part falls in step, too high on good food and great wine, and the feeling of her hand, fingers bare and unsnagged for the first time in decades, as they slip smoothly into the pocket of her new trousers.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Cotswolds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here's hoping we stay on track for 7-10 day updates. Sorry if there ends up being a delay - life's busy rn!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>There’s roadworks for miles and miles. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle drives again - Eve hadn't signed up to navigate a four-tonne van through winding, single-lane roads.</p><p> </p><p>The sun beats perfectly. </p><p> </p><p>Each twist and turn reveals a cobbled house, a slanting roof, a garden, a farm. </p><p> </p><p>She almost doesn’t mind the passing smell of cow dung in the sweltering heat.</p><p> </p><p>She turns up the radio and lights a cigarette. The smoke fractures in the light, like dust or confetti, colourful with summer. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle must see it too, because she doesn’t tell her off, doesn’t sulk, only turns down the radio and makes a small, annoyed noise when Eve’s phone continues to ring.</p><p> </p><p>Bear’s voice filters through the loud-speaker.</p><p> </p><p>“Are yous in Birmingham yet?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pops her chewing gum and gives Eve a careful, don’t-say-a-word smile.</p><p> </p><p>“The van broke down.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shit.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve sandwiches her lips between her teeth to stop from laughing.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Very big problem. Engine, I think. Very serious. Actually, it will take the weekend to fix, this is what the man said.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bugger. Should we rent you another car or -”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Villanelle sing-songs. “We will be back on the road soon, promise.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because we need to get things while the trail's still hot and Carolyn’s been up me arse wonderin’ when -”</p><p> </p><p>“They are fixing it. Okay? It will be ready soon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. Okay. Soon. Cool. Where’s Eve?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve shakes her head, appalled and riveted as Villanelle continues to spin casual lie after lie, about Eve going for a jog - “Really, this is excellent for her, she is in fantastic shape now” - and having to rent a last-minute airbnb - “We are staying with rich people, the husband is a big snorer” - and - “There are a lot of nice dogs here.”</p><p> </p><p>When she’s satisfied with their alibi, she motions for Eve to hang up, frowning innocently with a soft shrug.</p><p> </p><p>“What? I am just doing my job.”</p><p> </p><p>“Carolyn’s going to crucify me.”</p><p> </p><p>“You?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes!” Eve drops her phone into the cup holder and tosses her half-finished cigarette out the window. "I’m supposed to be -”</p><p> </p><p>“Babysitting me?” Villanelle smirks.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes!”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm,” Villanelle says, unconvinced, as she turns up Chaka Khan, “the only thing you need to do is listen to this terrible shit and relax.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not terrible - it’s disco.”</p><p> </p><p>“Does it remind you of your youth?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck off before I Freud your ass.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle puts the music on blast so the whole van pulses, the song lost to the open air around them as Eve grapples for the controls, shooing Villanelle’s hand away, smacking her gently when it hovers.</p><p> </p><p>“Eyes on the road, asshole.”</p><p> </p><p>The station scrambles.</p><p> </p><p>Eve speeds through the numbers, slumping back when she finds something classical. She waits for Villanelle to laugh, to kick her out, maybe.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t expect Villanelle to nod, tapping her fingers against the wheel to the oom-cha-cha rhythm of the piano.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you serious?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums to the melody. Her voice is good when it’s soft and familiar with the song, husky but light, like it’d been in Rome, muffled as it was through the earpiece.</p><p> </p><p>“I like it.”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em> know </em>it?"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle gives her a little shake of the head. “I know a lot of things.”</p><p> </p><p>“What, like Chopin?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Chopin, Debussy, Stravinsky - what is your favourite?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve blows out a slow breath. She stares at Villanelle’s hands and finds herself well-versed in Villanelle’s knuckles, the shape of her long fingers, her bare wrists blending into toned forearms, arms - the scar there - shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>She stares at the freckles at the corner of Villanelle’s eye. They make a constellation. She maps it out in her head and lands back on the steering wheel.</p><p> </p><p>“Mozart.”</p><p> </p><p>“Boring.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve rests her elbow against the window. She props her temple to her fist. The wind licks at her neck. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s yours?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tchaikovsky.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nationalist.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grins. “To play?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s jaw almost drops. A small grunt comes out and Villanelle slows the car, turning her attention to the passenger seat.</p><p> </p><p>“To play? Debussy. To listen? Tchaikovsky.”</p><p> </p><p>When she doesn’t reply, still reeling from the image of Villanelle playing a musical instrument - she pictures a piano - sitting and using her hands gently, meticulously, to create something meaningful and beautiful instead of taking away, Villanelle lifts a hand and wriggles her fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“In Russia, you are either a gymnast or a classically trained pianist. There is no in between.”</p><p> </p><p>She wants Villanelle to play for her. It almost leaves her winded, the sheer force of wanting it, wanting to see Villanelle make something out of nothing, to see the patience and intimacy that comes with performing.</p><p> </p><p>“In Korea, you’re either a doctor or a lawyer.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m surprised you don’t play,” Villanelle teases.</p><p> </p><p>Eve cringes. She remembers her childhood - forced after-school lessons under her mother’s watchful eye, awkward recitals at Christmas, countless broken strings and callouses.</p><p> </p><p>“Violin. Horribly.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sucks her teeth. “Ah. So your very Asian mother doesn't disappoint.”</p><p> </p><p>“I quit after grade five.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shame. I would offer to play a duet.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs. “We don’t play well together though, do we?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. That's true. We are getting better.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is about listening and understanding the other person, Oksana,” she says in a much thicker, melodic Russian accent. “Anna. She used to say all of the time.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve finds herself nodding mutely. She’s catapulted to Moscow, to the dusty corridors of her mind where Anna and Max live, to Irina and Konstantin like stepping-stones in her memories. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a wistful sort of sound. “You know, I spent some time in Barcelona. Beautiful - big house, swimming pool, sunshine, sangria, beautiful women - everything I ever wanted.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve wonders why she’d ever leave what sounded like paradise. She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t dwell on Villanelle’s comment nor the unpleasant clench in her chest.</p><p> </p><p>“I had some jobs to finish. One kill - undercover piano-tuner. Cool, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“Could’ve done a Dasha - moonlight as a pianist. Handle, the rest of the time.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle scrunches her nose. “No. Dasha is <em> crazy </em>-crazy.”</p><p> </p><p>She turns up the radio. The crystal sound of piano fills the silence and steals Eve’s attention away from the irony, the once again laughable concept of pot-kettle-black, as Villanelle speeds up, racing down a straight stretch of road and into the quiet village ahead.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t tell me I don’t do nice things for you,” Villanelle says, hands on her hips as she surveys the cottage.</p><p> </p><p>Eve dumps their bags by the door. She feels like what a Victorian newlywed might feel like, fresh off the aisle and onto the countryside honeymoon.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle turns to her, arm stuck out.</p><p> </p><p>“Surprise.”</p><p> </p><p>The cottage is in fact, a bungalow. The definition of rustic: a thatched roof and uneven floorboards, a beam-supported low-lying ceiling Eve’s sure Villanelle’s going to have to duck for, an agar - who the fuck still had those? - and twin beds, she’s relieved to find, as she does a once-over of the bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>“This is - ”</p><p> </p><p>Cosy. Cute. Endearing. Private.</p><p> </p><p>“- small.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle toes off her shoes and slumps into a scuffed armchair. Her head tips back, hands behind her neck, eyes bleary.</p><p> </p><p>"The last time I was in the English countryside, things didn't go so well for me."</p><p> </p><p>"The last time I was, I figured you'd shoot me dead."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle peels one eye open. </p><p> </p><p>"You were stupid. Who gets out of the car to talk to someone with a gun?"</p><p> </p><p>"I was cocky."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle does a lazy stretch, like a cat. "Your friend was stupid."</p><p> </p><p>"Frank wasn't my friend. Frank was a dickswab."</p><p> </p><p>"A dickswab!" Villanelle smiles affectionately. "You are too funny, Eve. You know, he looked excellent in a dress. Good legs."</p><p> </p><p>Eve's mouth curls in disgust.</p><p> </p><p>"Frank was a misogynist, borderline racist, narcissistic little prick."</p><p> </p><p>"You are welcome, then."</p><p> </p><p>"Not that he - I mean, he didn't deserve to - you know what? Never mind."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle closes her eyes again. A small worry-line forms between her brows.</p><p> </p><p>“I just want to - forget about all of it. Just for a bit. Don’t you want to forget?”</p><p> </p><p>There were so many things Eve wished she could just wipe from her brain. Here, she could finally escape reality, if only for a weekend, the demons and draw-backs of everyday life left on indefinite pause.</p><p> </p><p>She leans against the archway. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle wriggles her toes, feet propped up on the coffee table. She looks tired and at peace. </p><p> </p><p>It’s soothing.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen - I’ll put the kettle on. We can catch our breath and figure out what to do later, just - take a break. I'll be -" she gestures over her shoulder with her thumb.</p><p> </p><p>They spend the afternoon being quintessentially British. They drink Yorkshire tea over ginger biscuits and swap stories.</p><p> </p><p>Eve finds being vulnerable hard in the harsh light of day, but Villanelle listens attentively, asks questions and answers honestly, shy at times, cocky at others.</p><p> </p><p>They take a turn around the block.</p><p> </p><p>They meet mostly retired couples and dogs, the occasional man in Barbour Villanelle scoffs at, like she isn't wearing the same.</p><p> </p><p>The shops are quaint here - side by side like sardines: pub and bookstore and pub and bakery, a charity shop next to an outdoor shop next to a coffee house that smells like heaven and that Villanelle lets her go into so she can order an extra large Americano and cake to go.</p><p> </p><p>They find a bench.</p><p> </p><p>It feels weird, trying to hold a conversation in public after a morning of soft-talk and hot drinks. </p><p> </p><p>So they don't.</p><p> </p><p>They sit and they breathe, the air hot and fragrant.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle takes photos, unbearably human as she zooms in on a dog and a picturesque window, a flower she likes the look of that Eve would never notice.</p><p> </p><p>It's a relief when she doesn't offer to take photos of her.</p><p> </p><p>She'd always hated the way she looked in pictures - awkward and dorky and too-smiley or too-serious.</p><p> </p><p>Being snapped meant having the trip immortalised, something to look back on. Eve wasn't sure if she was ready to have her memories live out on screen as well as in her head.</p><p> </p><p>It also meant an intimacy, an <em> I-see-you </em> closeness she just wasn’t ready for..</p><p> </p><p>She sips her coffee and lets Villanelle flick through the album so far.</p><p> </p><p>Mostly landscapes. A couple from Bristol - shots of messy graffiti and food. Bath, with its dreamy water-fog and jaded ruins. Oxford's cobbled, pretty streets in sandy colours, a cute store window, a dalmatian.</p><p> </p><p>"These are good."</p><p> </p><p>"I have a good eye," Villanelle says modestly. She’s grinning. She drops her phone into her jacket and nods across the street. "Dinner. Come on."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dinner is cheese.</p><p> </p><p>They bake a Camembert and eat their way through a whole sourdough loaf and charcuterie board bought straight from the local cheesemonger and chased down with Cab Sauv.</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches Villanelle put away almost half a jar of pickles. </p><p> </p><p>She cracks a Russian joke. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle smiles at her behind the rim of her glass, her socked feet buried in cushions and inches from Eve’s own. </p><p> </p><p>By the time Eve’s up and off the sofa, her legs are wobbly and the sky’s that perfect pomegranate pink. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks how she feels - soft like watercolours, entirely disarmed as she takes the bathroom first, lazy and slow, the sound of running water quiet, dizzying as Eve rummages through her overnight bag and puts her phone, her wallet, her eye mask at her bedside.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes wander to Villanelle’s own. Her phone sits beside the van keys, on top of a book.</p><p> </p><p>She slides her fingers over it.</p><p> </p><p>The photo beneath is folded. She lifts the book to find Konstantin and Matthias, except Matthias is missing, his half ripped out right down the middle. </p><p> </p><p>She feels her throat itch. And then her eyes. For Villanelle mostly, but for him too.</p><p> </p><p>They’re still itching when Villanelle remerges, steam curling behind her and licking at her bare legs.</p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t see.</p><p> </p><p>She stares straight up at the ceiling and tries to compose herself..</p><p> </p><p>“It’s yours.”</p><p> </p><p>She exhales. Chances a quick glance at Villanelle then, her floral silk kimono she recognises from London, wet hair piled high.</p><p> </p><p>She spends ages in the bathroom. Long enough to feel sober. Sober enough to condition her hair properly, to shave, to apply lotion, to feel human again. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s tucked up to her chin, waiting for her.</p><p> </p><p>She towels her hair and slips into the twin bed, the side-lamps turned down hot and low.</p><p> </p><p>“Tired?”</p><p> </p><p>“Knackered.”</p><p> </p><p>“Me too.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve nods sympathetically. She props her forearm beneath her head to see better. Villanelle looks back with sleepy eyes, a little blurry around the edges, but harmless. </p><p> </p><p>She looks more like a housecat than a tiger. Eve could reach out and touch her. The image of her petting Villanelle makes her laugh and she snorts, burying her face into her pillow.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing. This is - fucked up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is it?” </p><p> </p><p>Eve snorts again. “Isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rolls onto her back. Rolls away.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean - it is, right? It’s fucked up. That we’re here. Us two. In a cottage. Together.”</p><p> </p><p>“I think it’s nice.”</p><p> </p><p>It was nice. If Eve let bygones be bygones, then yes. It was nice. Idyllic. And she could do that, she supposed - water under the bridge.</p><p> </p><p>Except most of her was still soaked, rationally upset, a little bitter, massively jaded, and she knew as well as she knew herself, that it’d take a long while yet for her to get dry.</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m only asking you this because - well, because I’m a little drunk. Alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s head turns to the side, ready to listen.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me about Konstantin.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle folds her arms across her chest on top of the covers. “That is not a question.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay. Will you tell me about Konstantin, please?"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle frowns up at the ceiling like it’s done her wrong. Her chin crumples when she sulks. Eve’s so used to seeing her side-on, in the car, walking beside her, she’s almost memorised the pout of her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“He was a lot of things.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm, yep. Big personality."</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Very </em> big. Giant head. Just - <em> big</em>,” Villanelle stretches her arms out to demonstrate.</p><p> </p><p>Eve almost laughs. </p><p> </p><p>“He was a good person, I think. Unreliable. Good liar, but, good.”</p><p> </p><p>She almost wants to say, <em> I saw him drink-drive, pee and then try to shake my hand, so, agree to disagree. </em></p><p> </p><p>Instead, she says, “You honestly believe that?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods up at the ceiling. “You didn't know him very much.”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle takes a deep, slow breath. The air around them prickles with static.</p><p> </p><p>“When I was little, my father was my favourite person. He was brave and kind and smiled very big. He was loud. He would shout, sure, very angry. But not like my mother. My mother was a different type of angry. Quiet, deep angry, like poison, you know?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve hums softly.</p><p> </p><p>“He took me fishing. Hunting, sometimes. He taught me how to put a tent, how to count, how to tell a joke, to hit the boys. And then after, I learned to forget about him. About all of them. Learned to believe they were dead, in a big car crash, that there was nobody left for me. Not sad, just - empty.” There’s a broken laugh nestled there, lost to the quiet room, clipped as she starts again. “Good thing Konstantin was so fat. All of that space to fill up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle -”</p><p> </p><p>“He got me out,” Villanelle turns back onto her side. Her hair dries curled on the pillow, the white linen wet from her loose braid.</p><p> </p><p>Eve scoots so she’s teetering on the edge of her bed, so they almost breathe the same air, like a secret. </p><p> </p><p>She thinks of Paris. She thinks of lying in Villanelle’s bed like two bookends, too close and not close enough. She thinks of the smell of copper and perfume and fizzing champagne. Of the heat and adrenaline she’d felt, of fear and want all rolled into one.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls her pillow beneath her so she’s got something to hold, something to hide behind, something to press into as Villanelle talks.</p><p> </p><p>“I was just a kid. Smart - but stupid hot-head, no direction. Konstantin was unconventional but he was there, the only one, always, and he saw something in me, something special, to get me out and get me started. Bad business, I know,” she chews her mouth. “But I had so much anger and something to put it in and I was good at it, the <em> best</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Eve says softly, sheepish. </p><p> </p><p>“Even without it - he worried about me, checked on me. Slept on a hotel room floor so I could take the whole bed. Warned me about Anna, about making the same mistakes twice.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Anna, Anna, Anna. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Eve remembers Konstantin warning her about Villanelle too, and wonders how many times in his life he’d been wrong.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, he was annoying - I would ask him to watch movies and he would always say, ‘<em>No, I can’t, I’m sorry’</em>,” she says gruffly, “and he was so serious all of the time, but I think he - he was consistent and -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes glaze over. Eve can practically see her throat tremble and she finds herself squeezing her pillow, willing her not to cry but also wondering, morbidly, curiously, what it would be like if she did.</p><p> </p><p>“He saw me for what I am. All of it. And he accepted it. No questions.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares at Villanelle’s hands, tucked below her cheek. When she jostles, the covers slip and Eve has to blink twice to realise it’s a Care Bear shirt.</p><p> </p><p>She wonders if it's a tactical move, to remind her of Villanelle’s gift, of the stupid heart she’d listened to until the battery gave out and the plastic overheated in her hands. </p><p> </p><p>Still, instead of resentment, she flushes with fondness, Villanelle’s pain glowing under the lamplight. </p><p> </p><p>“I see you.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle frowns. “I miss him.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“It feels bad.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Eve pushes her chin into her pillow. </p><p> </p><p>“It feels like being hungry, like a hole.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Losing someone will do that to you.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle mulls this over. Eve sees the cogs turn, Villanelle’s lip tight between her teeth, eyes flickering across the space between them with uncertainty, like if they see each other, something will burst.</p><p> </p><p>Eve folds into herself and takes the plunge. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey. Look at me.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle glances up with watery, darkened eyes. </p><p> </p><p>The urge to touch her, to cup her face, leaves her dizzy and conflicted, but it pulls like a magnet and she has to make fists into the pillow-case to stop herself.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle gives a whine, a fractured little, self-deprecating thing. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because I know how you feel. It’s awful.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because of Niko?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s chest throbs. It’s like having a mirror held up and not finding what she expected.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you miss him?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. I don’t think you spend half a lifetime with someone and not miss them, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>“He was my husband. We made a promise to each other, we had a marriage. It wasn’t perfect - it was messy and exhausting and infuriating, but it was safe and it was good and for years, it was something I was proud of. We put up with each other’s bullshit, really called each other out, you know? I think sometimes you really need that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“It felt good to be loved by someone who wasn’t an asshole. Who was kind and decent and thoughtful. Too much, some days. Some days it felt like being suffocated, like I was the only thing he had, but - isn’t that what marriage is? What it becomes?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle puffs out her cheeks. “Suffocation?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve sighs. “No, just - predictability?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think there are many different kinds of marriage. I think maybe you get married as one person and grow to be another. Or maybe you are always somebody, and marriage helps you uncover your true self.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares. </p><p> </p><p>It’s probably the most profound thing she’s ever heard Villanelle say. She looks to her mouth to make sure, watching as it slants into a small smile.</p><p> </p><p>“We all want to be happy, Eve. We are selfish and rude and sometimes we make very bad choices in order to get there. Maybe we hurt people. Maybe we lie. Or steal. Or kill. Maybe we get married or change jobs or move countries.”</p><p> </p><p>“Or go on road-trips?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sniffs softly. “Yes, sometimes road-trips. Or haircuts! But we all want happiness. To love somebody. To be understood. To belong. Marriage or no marriage, there is no guarantee.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs. The sound is devoid of any humour, muffled by her arm.</p><p> </p><p>“When did you become such an expert on marriage?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle relaxes visibly beneath her covers. She stretches. Her toes peek out at the other end.</p><p> </p><p>“I know many things.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wise and modest.”</p><p> </p><p>“No need to be modest when you are smart and also good-looking.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh! She’s back at it!” Eve teases, relieved when Villanelle sticks her tongue out at her and then threatens to lob a cushion. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle settles. “No, you are right. A pillow fight would be cliché.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’re also two adult women.”</p><p> </p><p>“You can be an adult and play-fight. Maybe if Niko had offered to pillow-fight more, you would not have been so sad.”</p><p> </p><p>It knocks the wind right out of her.</p><p> </p><p>"That's not necessarily - I wasn't -"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle gives her a knowing look. "Were you happy?"</p><p> </p><p>Eve rolls her eyes. "Is anyone?"</p><p> </p><p>"With him."</p><p> </p><p>"Maybe I didn't want to be happy. Maybe your theory's off."</p><p> </p><p>"If you were happy with him like you were with Bill, with Kenny," Villanelle says very gently, very carefully, "then, okay," she nods. "But I have seen you happy Eve, in Berlin, in Paris. I know what it looks like. And when you talk about Niko, there is that look in your eyes, like in Rome, like you are hurting. I will never forget it."</p><p> </p><p>The sheets are suddenly itchy, rough against her skin and far too heavy. She pushes them away and reaches over to turn off the light.</p><p> </p><p>"You put it there."</p><p> </p><p>"I know. I think about it all of the time,” she says into the darkness.</p><p> </p><p>There are no street lights.</p><p> </p><p>In this neighbourhood, the cottages are distanced, separated by hedges and space. The only light should come from the moon but its crescent doesn’t touch them, only deep, vacuous darkness and quiet.</p><p> </p><p>Eve tries to orientate herself using the whites of Villanelle’s eyes, the gleam of her teeth.</p><p> </p><p>She wonders if Villanelle tries to do the same. </p><p> </p><p>“I wanted you to know how it is,” Villanelle admits finally. “I wanted you to feel how it felt for me.”</p><p> </p><p>“You manipulated me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“You had a gun, Villanelle. You could’ve saved us both the trouble.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a soft sigh and then a creak as Villanelle turns in bed. Eve listens to her breathe. </p><p> </p><p>She takes a deep breath of her own and inhales sandalwood and soap. In Rome, Villanelle hadn’t smelt like that at all, not like she had on the bus or in the parfumerie. She’d smelt like rust and panic, sweat and Raymond’s heavy, stifling cologne. </p><p> </p><p>It’s funny the abstract things Eve remembers about that day - the things she’d felt and smelt and heard. Not so much the visual things.</p><p> </p><p>The feel of Villanelle’s arms around her, the feel of the gravel beneath her, the sound of her walking away, the sound of the birds.</p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t feel like that for me any more.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Taking jobs. Doing bad things.”</p><p> </p><p>“What did it feel like?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing, mostly,” Villanelle says flatly. “Just - something to pass the time. Sometimes it was different. The important ones? Sometimes I felt things - watching the light die, it was fun, like a drug. Like being on a roller coaster. It was like being awake when everything else was so - <em> boring</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve feels her whole body twitch. Her stomach inverts. It lets out an indignant whine.</p><p> </p><p>“And now?”</p><p> </p><p>“Now,” Villanelle swallows, “it feels - like really bad indigestion, I think. Empty. Like taking away. Not like with Bor’ka or Pyotr, or Konstantin.”</p><p> </p><p>The wind taps gently against the glass.</p><p> </p><p>“Not like with you.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve hears the sound of her own pulse thundering in her ears. She licks her dry mouth and fills with warmth, with an alive sort of electricity but also with sluggishness, heavy with sleep.</p><p> </p><p>She means to respond. Villanelle waits for her, creating a safe space for her to answer, perfectly still in the covers.</p><p> </p><p>But there’s so much Eve wants to say and her tired brain can’t string it all together, overwhelmed with memories and emotion too difficult to put into words.</p><p> </p><p>She readjusts her pillow. Turns away towards the wall. Whispers a soft <em> good-night </em>into the stillness and waits for sleep to come. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks so much for tuning in! I know it's hard to stay interested with s4 postponed indefinitely, so I really appreciate it! 🖤💫</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Cotswolds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the insanely sweet comments on the last chapter, I - 🥺</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>She wakes up first.</p><p> </p><p>The sun’s edged through the curtains already. </p><p> </p><p>The room’s warm. </p><p> </p><p>Eve feels the summer heat on the back of her neck and under her arms. She kicks the covers down to let the breeze wash across her. </p><p> </p><p>The pillow feels cool on the other side.</p><p> </p><p>She rubs her face and turns away from the wall - she hadn’t moved a muscle - and finds Villanelle dead to the world, arm slumped across her eyes as she snores.</p><p> </p><p>Her sheets pile on top of the kimono on the floor. The rest of her is all dewy skin and bare legs star-fished across the bed. </p><p> </p><p>She sleeps like a brat.</p><p> </p><p>Eve averts her eyes once she gets to Villanelle’s shorts, seeking out her face instead, wondering if she could wake her through sheer will alone.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle twitches. Comatose.</p><p> </p><p>Eve cancels her phone alarm before it rings, propping the pillow against the wall so she can sit and steal some time for herself.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a pile-up of Whatsapp messages. Another from her mom. An unopened voicemail from Carolyn and several spam emails.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t reply to any of them. She pretends to read the news, tries to fool herself into checking Twitter and Instagram and that interior design app she subscribed to in a moment of self-indulgence.</p><p> </p><p>But her eyes keep straying to Villanelle and her shitty sleep habits, drawn by the long lines of her and the soft noises she makes. They stray to her open mouth and her tangled hair, her emerging tan, the scar she’d got to touch.</p><p> </p><p>In the early morning light, it looks darker, thicker. She wants to touch it again. She’ll ask Villanelle about it again. Maybe even ask about the other one, the one that feels much more sacred, almost too fragile to lay eyes on.</p><p> </p><p>Not before food though.</p><p> </p><p>She’ll make breakfast first.</p><p> </p><p>The welcome itinerary promised her freshly farmed eggs, milk and butter, and she’s pretty sure she’d spotted bacon in the fridge in her once-over of the kitchen last night.</p><p> </p><p>She throws on a hoodie, pockets her phone and tiptoes her way out of the bedroom in search of the strongest coffee Burford could offer.</p><p> </p><p>If Villanelle hears, she doesn’t react. Only grunts, twisting in the bed until she’s face-down on the mattress.</p><p> </p><p>Eve surveys the open plan.</p><p> </p><p>It’s nice having space to herself.</p><p> </p><p>She can’t remember the last time she cooked - of late, she’d found herself living mostly on instant noodles and self-loathing, though Kenny often stepped in with occasional Deliveroo or pizza.</p><p> </p><p>But breakfast? Breakfast was usually cigarettes on the way to the bus stop, stale doughnuts, or noodles - before her Bitter Pill stint. She still didn’t peg herself a morning person.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle was.</p><p> </p><p>In the week they’d spent together, Eve had already watched her eat her way through a dozen ice creams, stacks of waffles, pizzas, steak, bisque, numerous sandwiches and her weight-worth in sweets.</p><p> </p><p>Still, she definitely seemed to like breakfast best. When they weren’t rushed for the road, Eve noticed the way Villanelle lingered over her herbal tea, savoured the last slice of toast, drowned in the smell of coffee but recoiled at the taste.</p><p> </p><p>She puts the percolator on and sets about frying up eggs, bacon, sausages and French toast. She’s pouring juice when the commotion in the bathroom settles and Villanelle emerges, sleepy but amused. </p><p> </p><p>She’s wearing a loose tie-dye shirt and cut-offs, hair scraped back in a messy braid. </p><p> </p><p>Eve stares but doesn’t comment. Not this time.</p><p> </p><p>"Morning. Sleep okay?"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums. “What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>She slides the skillet away and turns off the extractor fan.</p><p> </p><p>“Burning stuff.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hurries over. “Really? Give it to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m kidding,” she dead-pans, nodding towards the table spread. “I <em> can </em>cook, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle steals a piece of toast, eyes wide and pleased when the cinnamon hits her.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes you can. You are full of surprises. This is very delicious.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve ushers her to a chair. </p><p> </p><p>“Plate up, I’m almost done. Chamomile?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tea.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle spins in her seat. She’s got a soft smile, an <em> Eve </em>smile Eve brushes off with an impatient eye roll as she holds up the kettle.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>At some point very early on, Villanelle had made it explicitly clear that under no circumstances was she ever drinking coffee. <em> Coffee </em> - and smoking - <em>is for dirty people, and I am not an animal, Eve, I take care of my body. </em></p><p> </p><p>Eve hadn’t, then, dared to mention her Eastern Block penchant for hard liquor, for fighting, for swearing, for sugar and saturated fats.</p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle work her way through half her breakfast before she finally stops and wipes her mouth with a napkin.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want to do today?”</p><p> </p><p>“Take it easy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” she nods, squirting Maple syrup all over her toast until it drips. “What does that mean?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs. “No rushing. No job-stuff. Just - I don’t know. The sun’s out? We could go around Burford, maybe drive to a neighbouring village? Explore.”</p><p> </p><p>“You want to explore? Like an adventure,” her eyes light up.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop it.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>That</em>," she gestures vaguely, "you’ve got that - <em> look</em>, like you’re planning something. It's annoying.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sips her tea, overly-civilised as she says sweetly, “I am always planning. You have to plan for things Eve, you are very disorganised.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re <em> scheming</em>. That’s different.”</p><p> </p><p>“Smart people scheme. Boring people plan.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve slides away her half-finished plate, then watches as Villanelle polishes off her own before starting to cut slices of bread in a neat little row.  </p><p> </p><p>“I will make sandwiches. To pack. Sausage or bacon?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve considered herself British. By nature, she was very much still American - stubborn, loud, impatient. By taste, she was definitely British - she liked pub food, didn’t mind the weather, enjoyed an occasional, well-made cup of tea. And so naturally - </p><p> </p><p>“Sausage.”</p><p> </p><p>"Good choice."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle doesn’t even ask when she smears HP sauce all over her creation, giving Eve a gleeful look as she goes about making her own.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you want to just grab pub lunch?”</p><p> </p><p>“There are no pubs where we are going,” she says ominously.</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle -”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em> relax</em>. <em> Bozhe</em>. I am taking you for a hike. You can manage it? I know you are forty, but -"</p><p> </p><p>"Forty-two." Fuck.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle snorts. "Okay, city mouse."</p><p> </p><p>"I’ve got nothing with me."</p><p> </p><p>"I will give you some shoes. You have a back-pack, and," she grabs some bananas from the fruit bowl, a pack of grapes, "now we have a picnic."</p><p> </p><p>Eve groans. She was not a hiker. </p><p> </p><p>As a kid? Sure. Long weekends up in Quebec, hiking with her cousins, nights around campfires and days on the lake. She was quiet, shy but determined, good in the kayak, better on the slopes. </p><p> </p><p>As an adult? A self-made couch potato. Slob, really. Lazy to the highest degree. Work took everything out of her so what was she to do besides collapsing on the sofa, cracking open a beer or three, and letting late-night TV fry her brain?</p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle raid the pantry, packing trail mix and bottles of water, sunscreen, blister plasters.</p><p> </p><p>She flits around while Eve takes her sweet time doing the washing up, hoping it’ll draw the morning out.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle halts the tap and pulls her away.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay, okay, you are finished<em>. </em> Look - I will drive. You will love it. I have even picked a route, there is a nice trail with excellent views, you tell me when you are tired and we stop, okay? Trees, birds, sun, huh? Perfection. Peace and quiet. And it is only ten! We have <em> all </em>day. What does Carolyn say? The early bird -"</p><p> </p><p>"Fuck's sake."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle claps her hands. "You are excited, I can tell," she grins, pulling them back towards the bedroom, indicating for Eve to hurry up and change so they could get going.</p><p> </p><p>"Not too steep. Promise," she says finally as she holds the passenger door open, backpacks in the boot of the van, a blanket, a cooling basket, a broken kite Eve has absolutely no intention of using.</p><p> </p><p>"Liar."</p><p> </p><p>"<em>No,</em>" Villanelle gasps, slamming the door shut, then peering back in through the open window. "I would not lie to you. Never again."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>It's a great, big, fuck-off hill.</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares up at it and then back over her shoulder to see how far they'd come.</p><p> </p><p>"Kill me."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle waves at her from a good way away.</p><p> </p><p>"Eve! Hurry up!"</p><p> </p><p>"Fuck you," Eve mutters but Villanelle's already off, practically skipping up the rocks to the slope ahead.</p><p> </p><p>She's drenched in sweat. The suncream on her face drips down her temples. Her feet slip in Villanelle's hiking boots, two sizes too big so her toes keep hitting the front. Her shoulder throbs, the straps of her backpack digging into her scar relentlessly until she’s got no choice but to slide the thing off, hurling it at her feet.</p><p> </p><p>"Fuck this. Jesus <em> Christ</em>."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle reappears minutes later. "Hey! What are you doing?" she shouts.</p><p> </p><p>"Giving up!"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle slides effortlessly down the hill in her Converse and massive backpack, jogging over to join her.</p><p> </p><p>"Are you okay?"</p><p> </p><p>Eve huffs.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Oh</em>," Villanelle says softly, affectionately. "Oh, you weren't kidding."</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Villanelle </em>."</p><p> </p><p>"Here," Villanelle picks up her bag, hooking it over her spare shoulder. "We are not far - ten, fifteen minutes." And then - "Are you mad?"</p><p> </p><p>"Fuming," she dead-pans.</p><p> </p><p>And she was. Who the hell hiked in twenty-eight-degree heat? She probably looked awful.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle, on the other hand, looks completely unphased bar for the sweaty curls beside her French braid, the soft flush on her face, the sunburn on her bare shoulders, her scar.</p><p> </p><p>Eve motions to it. "D'you put lotion on that?"</p><p> </p><p>"Uh - no. Why?"</p><p> </p><p>She remembers the post-op instructions she'd been given in the middle of a busy Italian ward. <em> You protect from sun - no melanin, so big burn, okay? You put big factor. Always.  </em></p><p> </p><p>She steps round to get the sunscreen from the side pocket, squirting some into Villanelle's open palm as she explains.</p><p> </p><p>She would offer to do it herself. She'd be softer - Villanelle's slap-dash with it, rubbing the lotion in as though she enjoys the sting, fingertips digging into the ropey skin.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't though, just peels her t-shirt away from her soaked back and rotates her shoulder socket a few times, massaging the back of her shoulder blade.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't realise she's made a quick, pained sound when Villanelle gives her a careful look.</p><p> </p><p>"It still hurts?"</p><p> </p><p>Eve clicks her tongue. "Only when I have to hike a backpack three miles up a hill."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle ignores her bite. "Are you okay?"</p><p> </p><p>"Never better."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's captivated gaze pisses her off. </p><p> </p><p>"Do you want me to -" she moves as if to take a look but Eve shrugs away, humming a soft <em> no</em>.</p><p> </p><p>"It's fine."</p><p> </p><p>"Eve -"</p><p> </p><p>"It's <em>fine</em>. I'm fine. Let's go."</p><p> </p><p>Her shoulder throbs the rest of the short walk, but she doesn't miss the way Villanelle sticks beside her this time, hazel eyes light in the sun and fixed on her, alert for the first sign of discomfort as she makes it her mission to power through to the top.</p><p> </p><p>The view comes in fast.</p><p> </p><p>It's almost worth it - Eve likes the lush greenery of it, the flat English plains, the speckled trees and farmland, the cloudless sky. </p><p> </p><p>The breeze catches. It feels good on her face, beneath the cotton of her top.</p><p> </p><p>The grass is overgrown here. Pretty in its untrampled state, right off the beaten path where the wildflowers grow.</p><p> </p><p>She looks to Villanelle for approval and folds out the blanket she'd been carrying.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle lays down their backpacks and the picnic box.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm done."</p><p> </p><p>"I can see that," Villanelle says slowly. She hands Eve water, watching her drain most of it. "What do you think? You should enjoy the moment. You earned it." </p><p> </p><p>Eve catches her breath. Wipes her mouth. Considers their surroundings again.</p><p> </p><p>"It's - nice."</p><p> </p><p>"Nice."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. Green. Quiet."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sighs. "Okay. Next time we will go to a busy train station. A museum. Very urban."</p><p> </p><p>Eve snorts. </p><p> </p><p>The prospect of a <em> next time </em> feels familiar and daunting.</p><p> </p><p>She ignores it, laying out their lunch before kicking off her hiking boots and rolling up her slacks, arms behind her to look overhead.</p><p> </p><p>When she closes her eyes, there are bright pinks and purples dancing behind her lids like white noise.</p><p> </p><p>It's peaceful. Hypnotic. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle throws a grape at her.</p><p> </p><p>"Eve?"</p><p> </p><p>She keeps her eyes closed. "I'm enjoying the moment."</p><p> </p><p>"Okay," Villanelle says softly and Eve can hear she's already bitten into something, her words muffled as she chews and swallows.</p><p> </p><p>She takes another minute to listen out for the birds. The rustle in the trees. The absence of traffic.</p><p> </p><p>She can hear herself think. She doesn't let herself do it too long.</p><p> </p><p>When she finally opens her eyes, Villanelle's looking out at the view, elbow hooked to a bent knee, sandwich in her hand.</p><p> </p><p>"So you are really not a hiker."</p><p> </p><p>"Used to be. Kind of."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle turns to her with a dubious look.</p><p> </p><p>"Years ago. Backpacked Europe with Niko."</p><p> </p><p>"Those are cities, Eve."</p><p> </p><p>"Well - I went hiking with Bill and Elena." The thought clenches inside her but she pushes through to let it loose. "Three times, actually."</p><p> </p><p>"Wow," Villanelle says sarcastically, eyes wide. "That is a lot."</p><p> </p><p>"First time, last time, and never again."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle smiles. "Funny."</p><p> </p><p>“Elena used to make me drink these shitty charcoal smoothies after hot yoga, which, by the way, is hell on earth. Literally tasted like death, honest to God I don't know how she did it. And Bill," she sniffs, "he just made me - well - <em> drink</em>. Nothing like a pint to chase away the endorphins."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle doesn't say anything. She sets her unfinished sandwich down and wipes her hands on the grass.</p><p> </p><p>The silence stretches. </p><p> </p><p>Eve takes her own sandwich and forces a bite into her heavy stomach.</p><p> </p><p>"I think I like Bill's option better," Villanelle says at last when the quiet is too much and they've run out of food to distract them.</p><p> </p><p>"Me too."</p><p> </p><p>"Eve."</p><p> </p><p>"Don't."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle takes a deep, shaky breath. She props her elbows on her knees and her chin on her knuckles.</p><p> </p><p>"I think maybe it is good we never went to Alaska. A lot of snow there, you know. A <em> lot </em> of hiking."</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs, short and sudden. "Right."</p><p> </p><p>"We will have to get you fitter if you want to go."</p><p> </p><p>"I don't."</p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle sink a little. She stabs with guilt.</p><p> </p><p>"Not to Alaska, anyway."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods. "Somewhere hot."</p><p> </p><p>"Nope."</p><p> </p><p>"Somewhere….medium?" Villanelle tries.</p><p> </p><p>Eve pops the last grape in her mouth. Briefly in her head, she lists off all the <em> medium </em> places she can think of where they hadn't already been - Brussels, Netherlands, Switzerland, Hungary. Parts of the US, globally speaking.</p><p> </p><p>She pictures city-hopping with Villanelle. Instead of making her laugh, the idea lodges, heavy and not entirely unpleasant like a pebble in a bowl.</p><p> </p><p>“Somewhere medium,” she concedes. She doesn’t look at Villanelle, doesn’t want to see the hope there, all lit up by the sun.</p><p> </p><p>She softens her elbows and lays down on the ground, folding her hands beneath her head in a cradle. </p><p> </p><p>The clouds swim across her eye line.  </p><p> </p><p>She wants to stay here forever. Maybe they could just cut the trip short, give up on the whole thing and live a life of suburbia until the funds ran out. </p><p> </p><p>She would make delicious Korean food and Villanelle could make pasta like she’d promised, or Piroshki, just so she could have something to pick on her for.</p><p> </p><p>It’s unrealistic and naive. It gnaws at her.</p><p> </p><p>She wriggles her toes against the blanket and nudges Villanelle with them.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey. What’s going to happen in Birmingham?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle considers her. Her eyes roam from her face all the way down her body as if weighing up something important. And then she shrugs, mouth quirked as she lays down and joins Eve, stretching out beside her.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bear hasn’t said much about it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. He is very unreliable.”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean - he did save your ass.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a face.</p><p> </p><p>“Reckon we’ll find the Carlisle link? So we don't end up in the butt-crack of nowhere.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Villanelle says again softly. She tilts her chin up to get more sunlight, her profile illuminated against the backdrop.</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares for as long as she’s allowed - until Villanelle catches her out. </p><p> </p><p>“I think it will be shit. Carlisle is very - farm, tractor, cow. Like Grizmet.”</p><p> </p><p>“We have that here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve rolls her eyes. “Are you going to tell me more about Russia?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shakes her head <em> no. </em>Eve can tell from the way her mouth moves that she’s digging her teeth into the soft inside of her bottom lip, worrying at it. </p><p> </p><p>“...okay. So...we just find the Jewellery Quarter, get the - what is he, jeweller-cum-handler?”</p><p> </p><p>“Owner.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course he is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Engagement rings. Maybe he will be there. Maybe not. I will go and find what is the deal with Carlisle. How they fit together. Maybe we don’t have to go there, after that. He can tell us who is at the top. I can make him talk.”</p><p> </p><p>“Like you did the Bristol guy?”</p><p> </p><p>“Bristol was a mistake,” she snaps. “It was messy. He wasn’t even important! You still think I don’t regret it?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve props herself back on her elbows. “No - I - <em> obviously  </em>you do. I <em> know </em> you do. I knew straight away, God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyebrows rise in question.</p><p> </p><p>“Ugh - I don’t know. Deflated?”</p><p> </p><p>“Like a balloon?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve <em> tsks</em>. “I get it. We’re not going on a killing spree, that’s the whole point. Soon as we have the list - <em> anything </em>- to pinpoint the fuckers, we’re out. Carolyn will handle the rest. I know Bristol wasn’t -- fun. None of it’s fun.”</p><p> </p><p>“None of it,” Villanelle frowns.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s - I didn’t - Stuff like this, it’s - different. It's nice. Fun. It is. Some parts have been - better than I expected. The parts that have nothing to do with work.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle brightens. “Like the Romans?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“And Oxford.”</p><p> </p><p>“Take away the black market thing, sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“And our cottage.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.”</p><p> </p><p>“So, actually - a lot of things have been fun.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t answer, not with words anyway. She’s smiling though and Villanelle smiles back before she closes her eyes to face up to the sky. “Okay. Fine. Agreed.” </p><p> </p><p>"Well, as long as you agree."</p><p> </p><p>"I do."</p><p> </p><p>"Good."</p><p> </p><p>"Yes."</p><p> </p><p>"Perfect."</p><p> </p><p>"It is."</p><p> </p><p>Eve sighs. She rolls over onto her side. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's chest rises and falls calmly, legs bent at the knees. She could almost be asleep, except there's a soft humming, a tune Eve vaguely recognises - Elton? - and her thighs sway to the rhythm, foot tapping into the blanket.</p><p> </p><p>She stares and stares at Villanelle's bare arms. They're toned and tanned, freckled in parts and pale in the soft crooks of her elbows. The skin there is perfect, translucent so her veins come through, light blue like the horizon. </p><p> </p><p>The scar sits pinkened by the heat.</p><p> </p><p>Eve feels her heart pound in her chest. Her fingers twitch beside her, curling and stretching against the coarse material of the blanket. She reaches out her arm, hand hovering above Villanelle’s skin, waiting for Villanelle to notice.</p><p> </p><p>And then she lets her palm rest down against the crook of Villanelle’s elbow and the only reaction is a sharp intake of breath, and Villanelle’s eyes, fluttering shut and then open. </p><p> </p><p>“Tell me what happened.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s muscles flicker, the ones in her jaw too. Eve knows she’s desperate to pull away, to change topic. </p><p> </p><p>She gives a gentle rub and smooths her thumb over the fleshy knot. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle frowns up at the sky. “You know.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” she says softly. She strokes the skin, lets the warmth of it radiate up into her hand, lets the space between Villanelle and her grow hot. “I don’t, actually. I have no idea - how you went from Berlin and Rome, to this.”</p><p> </p><p>The wind whistles through the grass.</p><p> </p><p>The birds sing.</p><p> </p><p>“I made a mistake.”</p><p> </p><p>“How?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs her chin. “I lost control.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>She won’t let it slide, not this time. Not now they’re alone and there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide or divert her attention to. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rolls in to face her. She keeps her arm extended, letting their touch last.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking straight.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>“It - felt wrong. I didn’t - I don’t think I wanted to.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do the job?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods. </p><p> </p><p>“Why did you?”</p><p> </p><p>“In the moment - sometimes it’s hard. To make the decision, without a clear head. To do things like that, to do them well - there is a lot of focus, planning. Psychology - it is so important, you know?  I didn’t prepare. He hurt me before I could react. I didn’t see. I thought, <em> this is the last one, no more. </em> I wanted out.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve imagines a knife to Villanelle’s arm, much like the one she’d plunged in her stomach, short and quick and unexpected. She’d seen her off-guard, knew exactly how that looked: Villanelle with her walls down, open and cocky and vulnerable. Easy to hurt.</p><p> </p><p>God knows she’d done it countless times already.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you go to A&amp;E?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. Bathroom.”</p><p> </p><p>“Huh,” Eve sighs. “DIY?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve had better,” Villanelle says flatly. Her gaze drops from Eve to Eve’s hand, watching as her thumb circles once, twice, three times.</p><p> </p><p>Eve wonders if the one on her stomach feels similar. If it looked like a rotting fruit before she’d been closed up, like it had in her fever-dreams, wet and crimson, gaping.</p><p> </p><p>“Anaesthetic?”</p><p> </p><p>“Vodka.”</p><p> </p><p>“What else,” she can’t help but fill with a mix of affection and sympathy. She swaps her thumb for her fingertips, trailing them an inch below the suture line where the skin is impossibly soft and unblemished. “Does it hurt?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks at her. “Sometimes. Not when you do that.”</p><p> </p><p>She stops.</p><p> </p><p>She curls her fist up into her chest, under her chin. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle mirrors. She smells like citrus and perfume and the wind whips soft, stray curls across her forehead and cheeks. </p><p> </p><p>“You don't have to stop.”</p><p> </p><p>Her voice is low and rough. Her eyes are dark. Her mouth is open but not smiling, and Eve can almost see the line of her teeth, the wet of her tongue.</p><p> </p><p>She clenches her fists tighter.</p><p> </p><p>“You can touch me, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“I did.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods. </p><p> </p><p>Eve feels the nudge of bare toes against her own, briefly, on the flat of her foot and then gone. It makes the base of her belly ache, twisting and untwisting.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I touch you?” Villanelle says carefully. She lays perfectly still, the flutter of her lashes and nervous twitch of her mouth the only movement.</p><p> </p><p>Eve feels her whole body hum.</p><p> </p><p>“You have.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh," she flushes. "Sometimes - I - it’s like I want to make sure you are real, I want to -” she huffs through a half-hearted smile. “I know it's fucked up, you said it - that we are working together again. Believe me - I didn’t expect - the last thing I imagined was to be here, with you. After everything. I made a <em> big </em>mistake. I will never forget it.  Sometimes I do stupid things. Selfish, angry, stupid things, I don’t think. It hurts people, I know. I know I hurt you. Very much. You hurt me, but - it is not an excuse.”</p><p> </p><p>The words keep coming and Eve tries very hard not to breathe too loudly, too quickly, for fear they might stop.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve, I only want to - I want so many things. Sometimes it feels like, all I do is want things. I want - I want you to be safe. To be happy. To forgive me - I know maybe it will never happen. I want to have a normal life. A home.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve feels her breath stick in her throat. “Someone to watch movies with?” she croaks.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's eyes shine with recognition. “Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>She looks small.</p><p> </p><p>She looks soft enough to hold and it washes over Eve in one huge, overwhelming wave. She thinks about Villanelle, clad in pyjamas and snuggled on a sofa, bingeing some new crime-drama on Netflix, maybe a psycho-thriller; thinks about the things she'd caught in glimpses - everyday things, like Villanelle making breakfast and taking photographs, riding a bike, exploring.</p><p> </p><p>Everyone deserved that. Eve firmly believed no person was exempt from redemption, she believed it for herself, so, why was Villanelle any different?</p><p> </p><p>The thought that she might ever be robbed of that prematurely hurt more than it satisfied.</p><p> </p><p>"You should have that."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's chin wobbles. It looks like her mouth might too, eyes wet and bright in the sun. Eve feels them skitter up and down her face like a physical touch, in disbelief and awe.</p><p> </p><p>"You deserve that."</p><p> </p><p>"No I don't."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah," Eve smiles gently, sadly. "I think you do."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes that sound again, a mewl, a disagreeing, wounded sort of sound, turning to press her cheek into the prickly knit of the blanket. The gesture sinks right behind Eve's breastbone, blossoming like a firework.</p><p> </p><p>She scoots her hand up between the feeble space between them. "I don't want you to get hurt," she whispers.</p><p> </p><p>It feels like a confession.</p><p> </p><p>"Why?"</p><p> </p><p>"I don't want anything to happen to you again."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle squeezes her eyes shut, pained. Her shoulders bunch up around her neck, curling in to protect herself.</p><p> </p><p>"I don't want to be the reason you do things that make you unhappy. Things you don't want to do. Because it's obvious to me now - how you feel and how you think and - I want you to have the time and space to do whatever it is you need to do, to - I don't know - heal? Process? Feels like you've hopped from one thing to the next without so much as a breath. That's got to take a toll, right? You must be exhausted. I am."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sniffs.</p><p> </p><p>"Besides. I think you might be losing your touch," she tries lightly, fingers crawling over to get her attention again by twisting into the material of her tie-dye, "don't want anyone else poking holes in you."</p><p> </p><p>There's a wet chuckle, at last.</p><p> </p><p>Eve feels her body relax.</p><p> </p><p>"I will handle it," Villanelle finally says, voice swollen with emotion. </p><p> </p><p>"Like you did Paris?" Eve dares, fingers still very much on the cotton of Villanelle's t-shirt. They slip under the loose sleeve, touching and then retreating. </p><p> </p><p>"Better."</p><p> </p><p>She laughs. "I hope so."</p><p> </p><p>"Promise," Villanelle shifts to accommodate the way Eve's fingers hover above her covered bicep and eventually land there again, like bees to a flower. "Just make sure you are waiting for me with a nice, big glass of vodka when I come back, okay?"</p><p> </p><p>"Mmm, downward spiral into functioning alcoholism. I can get behind that," Eve grins. Her smile falters just a little when Villanelle covers her hand with her own, tethering it to herself, to her warmth.</p><p> </p><p>Eve throws Birmingham by the wayside. She focuses only on this moment, on the sight of Villanelle and the smell of her, and now the feel, sturdy yet soft, pliable beneath her palm as she squeezes reassuringly, once, and then once more.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Birmingham</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, no, I think it’s safe to say that this place,” Eve says, frowning at the view, “this place is a shithole.” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle leans against the wall with her.</p><p> </p><p>The Birmingham Library viewing platform looks out onto the rest of the miserable city. Not even the midday sun flushes out the grey, the concrete, the desperate touches of brutalist modernism someone tried to inject.</p><p> </p><p>She can see a hospital from here. Something called “The Cube” which is supposed to be - she actually has no idea, but it’s definitely an eye-sore. A mosque and a tangle of sprawling roads.</p><p> </p><p>“How long are we here for again?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks down at her phone, rotating the map around with her fingertips to orientate herself. “Just tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>“See?” Villanelle lifts up the screen for Eve, then points out ahead of them in real space. “Jewellery Quarter.”</p><p> </p><p>“Looks kind of - boujee.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure. A lot of - what is it called - hippers?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hipsters,” Eve snorts.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle repeats the word like it’s something sour and too-big in her mouth, leaning back against the ledge to look at Eve instead.</p><p> </p><p>“What will you do while I’m away?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know - what’s there to do in Birmingham? Eat a curry? Join Islam?”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be racist.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs again. “Kidding. Probably just - hang out at the hotel? I could look for stuff to do tonight. Something to eat? Somewhere nice.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes light up.</p><p> </p><p>“Just the mention of food and you get this," she gestures, "dumb look on your face.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not dumb, just hungry.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Permanently </em>hungry.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs. “I have a huge appetite.”</p><p> </p><p>“Insatiable.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve checks her with her hip and turns to gaze back out on the city-scape. She feels Villanelle’s eyes on her where they’d previously been on her phone. All of Villanelle’s attention is on her. She pretends she doesn’t notice, just to see how long she can draw it out.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I’ll go shopping.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Ha</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?” she feigns shock, “There’s great stuff here. Pound-shop, Primark, Clinton’s. Absolute bargain.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be gross.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve raises a brow, tongue between her teeth to stifle her smile. "Snob."</p><p> </p><p>"You like the shopping here? Be serious, Eve. If you have finally seen the light, I will take you again - to <em> Paris </em> or Milan or New York, not -" she grimaces at Birmingham's pale, dreary bones, groaning at the sight.</p><p> </p><p>"I get the point.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rests back against her elbow. She’s gloating. Gleeful. </p><p> </p><p>Which is funny, because she’s wearing those beaten up dungarees again, a cropped cotton T-shirt, and Eve wonders how many weird outfits she's yet to see. She definitely doesn’t wonder about the bare skin where the shirt ends and linen begins, the side of Villanelle’s exposed waist pale and perfect. </p><p> </p><p>The shirt’s probably short enough for Eve to see the scar, if Villanelle unhooked her straps and stretched. The scar would shine, golden in the light, glistening in the heat.</p><p> </p><p>Eve twists the bare skin of her ring finger and puts her hands in the pockets of her new culottes.</p><p> </p><p>“What time’s your appointment?”</p><p> </p><p>“Four.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fake ring shopping,” she scoffs. “Do you know what you’re doing?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle squints out at the skyscrapers and then at her. “Cut, clarity, contour, carat.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs. “Finally decide to read a briefing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course not.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just know these things,” Villanelle rolls her eyes but it’s harmless, just on the wrong side of confident, reminding Eve how human she is, how flawed this moment is, anchored in the smell of smog and the glint of the Birmingham library in blues and coppers behind them.</p><p> </p><p>She grabs the pack of cigarettes and pops one in her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle reaches for it before the lighter’s up. She pinches it from her lips and tosses it overboard.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oi</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are killing yourself slowly. If you wanted to die -”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t fucking finish that.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes flash.</p><p> </p><p>Eve makes as though she’s going to reach for another one but Villanelle shoots her a warning look.</p><p> </p><p>“You know I’ll just smoke twenty when you leave, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why? Why do you smoke? It is very bad for you. It smells bad. It will give you a stroke or lung cancer, maybe. Very slow. Painful. Very unsexy way to die.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because I like it?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Yes</em>! <em> Love </em> it. Love everything about it - the way it feels in my fingers, in my mouth, the thick, dirty, filthy flavour. The way it burns, the fog, the haze," she does a chef’s kiss.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a face, the bridge of her nose scrunching in disgust. It’s endearing.</p><p> </p><p>But Eve stands her ground.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen,” Villanelle clicks her tongue, cocking her head to the side playfully, “if you want to keep your hands and mouth busy -”</p><p> </p><p>“Do <em> not</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“- I could always give you -”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you dare.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums, watching, pleased, as Eve flusters, fiddling with the insides of her pockets.</p><p> </p><p>“You smoke because you are nervous. You smoke because it is a habit - a distraction. I know you. Every time you smoke, you are so - <em> uptight</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Now she’s definitely dying to. The urge came every time Villanelle called her out, saw right through her. Read her like an open book. Was she so transparent?</p><p> </p><p>She takes her hands out and digs her fingertips into the concrete slab that separates her from a two-hundred-foot drop. She sticks her head out to look underneath, the cars and pedestrians rushing below. She thinks of Kenny, standing on that precipice.</p><p> </p><p>The wind whips and she wobbles back.</p><p> </p><p>"Promise you'll be careful?"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks at her. Her stomach flips.</p><p> </p><p>"Of course."</p><p> </p><p>“‘Cause your track record -”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be careful.”</p><p> </p><p>"I could - I mean -” she scrapes her hair back. The wind tangles in her hands and she slides her hair-tie around a low bun. “I could go with you? If you -"</p><p> </p><p>"Eve."</p><p> </p><p>"Even just to wait outside, just to make sure -"</p><p> </p><p>"Eve," Villanelle smiles at her.</p><p> </p><p>"I just don't want you to -"</p><p> </p><p>"Hey."</p><p> </p><p>"What?"</p><p> </p><p>"Relax."</p><p> </p><p>The thought of Villanelle coming back to the hotel battered and bruised, worse, sits tight inside her throat.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m relaxed.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are shaking.”      </p><p> </p><p>“No?” she snaps. Her hands tremble. She tucks them in her armpits.  </p><p> </p><p>“You are worried about me,” Villanelle says smugly, in that theatrical way of hers that makes everything annoying, “it’s okay - you don’t want to lose me, I don’t blame you. I am one in a million.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a pain in my ass.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle scoots closer, a fond smile on her face as she stares up at the glistening building.</p><p> </p><p>“I will be careful and -”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ll message me this time.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. If it means you don’t smoke, I will message you.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve groans. She’s going to smoke. Actually, she couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel room, switch on the TV, kick off her shoes and spend the afternoon pretending not to care as her phone peered up at her, waiting for Villanelle’s call. </p><p> </p><p>“Worry less about me and more about you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course I worry about you,” Villanelle says, casual as she continues to survey the sheer ugliness of the library. Eve watches side-on. “It’s all I ever worry about. What else is there?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s flippant, a throw-away, but the meaning sticks in Eve’s brain and she says the words over and over until they’re memorised, just like <em> I love you </em> had been, like <em> I know what I’m doing </em> before that, and <em> I can’t stop thinking about you</em>, after.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She’s an hour in and half-way through a pack. </p><p> </p><p>The room looks like a gas chamber. She’d been courteous enough to open a window but the sheets will reek, the bathroom too, if Villanelle doesn’t come back on time and she gets to finish the other ten cigarettes waiting for her.</p><p> </p><p>She stares at the TV but she’s really staring at her phone on the bed, waiting for it to buzz.</p><p> </p><p>She’s smoked another two, poured herself the first thing she finds in the mini-bar and seriously considered running herself a stress-bath when it finally goes off.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not Villanelle.</p><p> </p><p>Bear:</p><p>
  <em> Are U free 2 talk? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Eve:</p><p>
  <em> Yeah. Want me to call? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Bear:</p><p>
  <em> Is V wit U? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Eve:</p><p>
  <em> No, she’s on the job. Everything ok? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her phone rattles in her hand and she picks up on the first ring.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>Fuck. Bear was dry, grumpy, annoying at the best of times, but when he sounded like that, all cautious and jittery? It never sat well.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s going on?”</p><p> </p><p>She hears James in the background, the sound of furious tapping against a keyboard and Mo intermittently, his flustered voice drowned out by Bear’s.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen pal, we’ve - are you sittin’ down for this?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve automatically bolts up out of bed. She liked to pace, to fiddle with something, to avoid difficult phone conversations altogether, if possible.</p><p> </p><p>She takes the empty can of tonic and sticks her finger in the hole.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” she lies.</p><p> </p><p>The metal edge digs into her fingertip.</p><p> </p><p>“Jamie - we’ve been - Carolyn - well, I think she’s just about taken it the hardest, but -”</p><p> </p><p>“Bear, for <em> fuck’s </em>sake.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s Konstantin.”</p><p> </p><p>Her mind jumps to the Post Mortem report, racing through the possibilities: poisoning, stabbing, heart attack, stroke, suicide. Exactly how tangled up had Konstantin been with the Twelve? How innocent? She wanted so badly to believe the latter. </p><p> </p><p>Konstantin had been a father-figure, unwanted and imperfect, but there, just like he’d been for Villanelle. He’d been a sort-of-colleague, a voice of reason in her most chaotic times, a warning in her least.</p><p> </p><p>She’d never trusted him, liked him only tentatively and constantly wondered about his relationship with Carolyn. </p><p> </p><p>But to find him dead? It hurt. It left a hole in the puzzle piece and then hurt even harder to find Villanelle so rocked by it, so damaged and so beautifully changed.</p><p> </p><p>Eve wanted him back. Now that he’d opened Villanelle up, she wanted him to see this new softness, the light, the things she was getting to see every day and knew Villanelle to be capable of.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve - you still there?”</p><p> </p><p>She swallows. “Yeah,” she croaks. “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Konstantin - Kenny - it’s - he - there was - I know it's not what we were expectin’ but, Christ, there’s footage like -”</p><p> </p><p>“Footage.”</p><p> </p><p>“Up on the roof, Eve. Security cams. No idea why nobody thought to check ‘em sooner.”</p><p> </p><p>“Footage of Kenny,” she says slowly. The metal bites and bites against her skin. She pushes harder. The can shakes in her hands. </p><p> </p><p>“And Konstantin.”</p><p> </p><p>“Both of them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Together, like. Eve - he definitely - we watched the vids, the footage - it’s clear as day, pal, we watched it two dozen times, I don’t - it's not tampered with. Doesn’t look accidental.”</p><p> </p><p>The skin splits. She hisses.</p><p> </p><p> “<em>Fuck</em>.” </p><p> </p><p>Drops of blood collect and slide onto the can. She sticks her finger in her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut as it throbs, as she listens to Bear hesitate on the other end. She puts him on loud-speaker.</p><p> </p><p>“Carolyn’s - distraught, obviously. She planned to call yous, but - we’ve not seen her since this mornin’. And Villanelle -”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck. Oh - fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>“Probably not smart to - go tellin’ her just now.”</p><p> </p><p>She glares at the wall. Glares at the bedside table and then at her finger. It hurts. It feels good. Her ears ring.</p><p> </p><p>“How - are you - are you <em> positive</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“I swear on my mother’s grave.”</p><p> </p><p>“But - <em> why</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“No idea. We’re wonderin’ if it’s stuff to do with the Twelve, blackmail maybe, maybe he really was ball-deep in shite.”</p><p> </p><p>“That doesn’t - it doesn’t make sense. I don’t - he wouldn’t do something like that, he just - he wouldn’t. He’s done some fucked up things but he wouldn’t, not that. Villanelle would tell you, it’s just - one step too far. And Carolyn and him, it’s -”</p><p> </p><p>“Complicated.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. He wouldn’t dare - he knew what that would do to her, I really don’t think -”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle would tell you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not to tell her, alright? She’s hardly in the best place, we think tellin’ her would - well, ruin the entire operation if I’m being frank with you.”</p><p> </p><p>“She knew him. <em> Well</em>. Like family. <em> I </em>knew him!”</p><p> </p><p>A beat. A heavy, swollen pause.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you?”</p><p> </p><p>She drops onto the edge of the bed. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Son of a bitch. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Kenny was gone. And Villanelle had grieved Konstantin, continued to grieve right alongside her. Carolyn too. She could hardly begin to imagine how Carolyn felt to realise the bitter, heavy truth of - what was that thing she’d said? <em> The ones I liked least were the ones I loved most. </em></p><p> </p><p>She feels bile rise in the back of her throat and clenches the empty can in her fist until it caves in on itself and her finger splits open again.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>All the times Konstantin had fucked with her, drank with her, joked with her. The times they’d spent in Moscow with Carolyn. The times he must have spent with Villanelle, watching her learn, grow, loving her (was that the word for it?), strengthening her - half her lifetime! </p><p> </p><p>Konstantin fended for himself - a one-man show, a handler. But he had a family. That had always come first, in the way he’d been with Irina, with Villanelle. And Carolyn had been family, in some strange, frayed, ebb-and-flow. He wouldn’t hurt her.</p><p> </p><p>“Bear.”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s not to know.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think I can -”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Eve</em>. Listen to me. Listen carefully. You’re travellin’ with a loose canon. Takes one to know one, right? Konstantin and Villanelle - they’re apples from the same tree. Not like us. For your own safety, don’t go tellin’ her. We don’t know what she’ll do and I don’t plan on findin’ out. Just - focus on gettin’ the right stuff and gettin’ the fuck home. Alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle would find out. Of course she would. Eve just wasn’t sure what was worse - keeping it from her and letting her realise for herself, or telling her the truth nice and quick and bearing witness to whatever sort of wreck the remainder of their trip turned out to be. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re literally with each other twenty-four-seven.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know. Just - keep a cool head. I’m sorry - about Kenny, about all of it. He was a good guy. Didn't expect it. None of us did. It’s a bloody shame.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” She pushes her fingers into her eyes where a headache’s brewing. Behind her eyelids, all she sees is Konstantin’s body laying on the platform and Kenny’s, flat out on the concrete. “I’m sorry too.”</p><p> </p><p>“Be careful. Stay focussed. Safety first - we can’t afford to lose you too. Just - be careful.”</p><p> </p><p>She had no idea what that meant any more. Three years ago, she’d thrown herself right in danger’s way, wiping any concept of personal safety from her world. That wasn't about to change.</p><p> </p><p>She hangs up with a half-hearted goodbye, two missed calls and a message flashing on her screen.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle:</p><p>
  <em> It’s over.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She dials back. Villanelle’s breathless on the line.</p><p> </p><p>“Where are you?”</p><p> </p><p>“On my way to the hotel.” She sounds rough, tired.</p><p> </p><p>“Want me to come and -”</p><p> </p><p>“No. Stay there.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you -”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you need me to -”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait for me. I’m -” a whimper and then angry Russian. “I will need that vodka, okay?” </p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t say a word beyond <em> okay</em>, and <em> see you soon, </em>the nervous ball of nausea wedged inside her stomach. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p>It feels like Villanelle’s back minutes after she hangs up. She barely gets time to prepare the drink, splash herself with cold water, locate the first aid kit and switch off the TV before Villanelle’s in the doorway, nudging past her to throw files on the bed, a mobile phone Eve doesn’t recognise and the van keys, all with a turned back so Eve barely gets a glimpse of the damage.</p><p> </p><p>She sniffs. “What died?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches her collapse onto the untouched twin bed. She pulls her crew-neck over her head to leave a strappy top and several bruises.</p><p> </p><p>Her bottom lip’s cut, bulging like the split skin of a peach. There’s a smaller one just above her eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>She gleams with sweat, looking away as Eve inspects her from the door quietly. And then she flops onto her back and folds her hands across her stomach with a loud, helpless grunt that finally draws Eve closer.</p><p> </p><p>There aren’t many words she can think to say.</p><p> </p><p>She just hovers, looking between Villanelle’s tired face and her feet where documents lay piled.</p><p> </p><p>She joins them, shuffling until Villanelle scoots her legs away.</p><p> </p><p>The paperwork shows lists and lists of transactions, small, frequent incoming sums of money, with large outgoing transfers. Most of the payments come from <em> Bossche </em> and wire out to <em> P J Tractor Parts. </em>A quick Google search confirms it’s in Carlisle.</p><p> </p><p>There’s proof of boutique ownership.</p><p> </p><p>There’s an unlocked old iPhone with free access to emails, Whatsapp groups, call history.</p><p> </p><p>A passport tucked in amongst the paper files.</p><p> </p><p>Eve sits and flicks through them aimlessly, buying herself time until Villanelle decides to talk, or leave, or do anything at all.</p><p> </p><p>She gets as far as inspecting the passport, Villanelle’s breathing deep and even like she might’ve passed out. Then the mattress jostles and Villanelle props herself up onto her elbows to pass her own phone over.</p><p> </p><p>“He was part of the Twelve.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle opens up her gallery. </p><p> </p><p>She didn’t know what she’d expected. The photos catch her off-guard: a guy in a velvet chair, slumped against a glass jewellery cabinet, asphyxiated by what looks like a very, very expensive diamond-encrusted necklace.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a <em> 12 </em>tattoo beneath the open collar of his shirt.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sits forward, so close Eve can smell the adrenaline pouring off her.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t - He started it.” </p><p> </p><p>Eve flicks through the photos, more evidence tying the boutique owner to the laundering trail and confirmation of ties up north. She listens to Villanelle tell her that she’d planned to interrogate him, hurt him just a little, leave as quickly as she’d arrived with the right intel but no carnage. She wonders whether Bossche had given the store owner a heads-up to expect both Villanelle and a fight. She doesn’t ask - doesn’t need to. The shake in Villanelle’s voice says it all.</p><p> </p><p>When she clicks the phone shut and finally looks up, she knows Villanelle's telling the truth.</p><p> </p><p>Her jaw’s starting to turn inky, blue crawling all the way up her temple. Faint traces of dried blood sit above her lip - Eve guesses she’d probably been punched. </p><p> </p><p>She reaches to the nightstand and hands over the glass of Smirnoff. </p><p> </p><p>“As promised.”</p><p> </p><p>She gets a small, half-there smile.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle takes a large gulp, wincing before taking two more. Her fingers fly up to her mouth to rub the sting there.</p><p> </p><p>Eve takes the glass and sets it beside the full ashtray she hopes Villanelle hadn't noticed.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you at least - get some bling out of it?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle doesn’t react.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, yeah - not the right time.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t steal, Eve. I can pay for things. Beautiful, expensive things.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. I know,” she moves to the minibar. </p><p> </p><p>She feels Villanelle’s eyes on her as she goes about finding more ice and more vodka, Villanelle’s gaze rooted, pleading and beckoning and apologetic.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re okay,” she sits back down, closer this time so she can turn on the bedside lamp and inspect Villanelle properly.</p><p> </p><p>Something in her starts to twinge, hard and sore, when Villanelle turns her face obediently to the light without being told.</p><p> </p><p>Everything looks worse from this angle.</p><p> </p><p>Her fingers hover at the curve of Villanelle's swollen jaw. She's not sure which part to touch, the small space between them so delicate, the injuries so raw, she keeps her voice whisper-soft when she instructs Villanelle to look up, to look to the wall, to open her mouth a little so she can see.</p><p> </p><p>She smooths hair from Villanelle’s forehead and reaches in askance for the sweating drink. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods. Empties it in a few swigs and lets Eve press it to the side of her face, the ice clinking in the silence.</p><p> </p><p>It hurts. Eve can see it in the lines between Villanelle’s brows, in the way she tries very hard not to dodge the cold even though her entire body twitches to pull away.</p><p> </p><p>She holds the glass for a few more minutes, just to see how patient Villanelle can be, whether she’ll wait.</p><p> </p><p>When she does, when the skin starts to turn pink and frosty, Eve sets the drink down and slowly wipes the moisture from her face.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s get you cleaned up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle doesn’t move. She just looks and looks. It makes Eve feel awkward and present and appreciated.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a mess.”</p><p> </p><p>“Big mess.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve sighs. She gestures, turning Villanelle’s face by the chin to figure out how many steristrips she’ll need to patch up the gash on her forehead. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you going to keep looking at me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because you like me so much?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because we might need to take you to ED.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle blows a small raspberry. She’s brighter, sad but sweet. </p><p> </p><p>Eve figures the alcohol’s kicked in because Villanelle tilts her head, slow and lazy, coy, daring as she parks her cheek in the curve of her open palm. Her eyes gleam, like they want to say, <em> tell me not to. </em></p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t. She doesn’t have the heart.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s face feels warm and clammy in her hand and her eyelids droop against the faint trace of a thumb gliding back and forth across the skin beneath her eye.</p><p> </p><p>It reminds her of her old kitchen when Villanelle had come uninvited, dressed in Alexander McQueen and bravado, and left her whole house smelling like champagne and something sharp. Eve had held her just like this, but she’d been rushed and reluctant. She’d been so mad and so, so scared. </p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t feel those things now. </p><p> </p><p>Now she feels like they have all the time in the world, nowhere to be, at least for a little while. She feels tender, bolstered by Villanelle’s softness. She finds herself anchored to it, nerves alert and awake under Villanelle’s gaze.</p><p> </p><p>Her neck is peppered with finger-marks, ring-like and deep right above the smooth lines of her collar-bones. Eve wants to touch her there the most, to stroke gently just to get a reaction, to feel the bold, moving signs of life: Villanelle's pulse and Villanelle's breath to reassure her. </p><p> </p><p>She thinks about Raymond's fat hands around her, stubby but strong as they'd made her change colour, made her gasp and fall to her knees. She thinks about how close to death she'd been, completely helpless and overpowered, intentionally or not. She wonders whether something similar had happened at the boutique - a messy grapple, shattered glass and beautiful jewellery splattered in crimson, and then climax, as something in Villanelle snapped again and pushed her to kill. </p><p> </p><p>She should probably tell her, <em> You need to stop murdering people</em>, or, <em> I thought you weren't into that any more</em>, but all she says is, "You need to stop getting into fights," and it comes out so quiet, so affectionate, Villanelle practically curls into her.</p><p> </p><p>"You should see the other guy."</p><p> </p><p>Eve winces as Villanelle's mouth moves, agitating the sore. "I did."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle runs her tongue over the dried blood, chafing it with her teeth over and over. She wasn’t ever gentle with herself. Maybe she liked the way it hurt, the same way Eve liked her own scar, throbbing every now and then to remind her.</p><p> </p><p>"Don't do that."</p><p> </p><p>She lets go of her lip and pushes it into a pout. </p><p> </p><p>Eve gives her a playful, chiding look and stands. "Come on then," she reaches to pull her up and into the bathroom.</p><p> </p><p>It's quiet, peaceful in a crawling, foggy sort of way, the bedroom dark and warm and the en-suite light and stark, all cool marble and curved lines.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle holds her hand and follows close behind, letting herself be propped onto the closed lid of the toilet as Eve goes about rummaging through the first aid kit to see what might be useful.</p><p> </p><p>There's surgical spirit and gauze, an emergency suture pack she's grateful she won't actually need to use - not yet, anyway - plasters, tweezers, safety pins, arnica. She takes a quick glance at Villanelle's face and realises anything she uses will sting like a fucker.</p><p> </p><p>"Want to hop in the shower first? I'll sort this out, get you more ice.”</p><p> </p><p> “Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah? I’ll just -” she motions to the general disarray around the sink.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s already taking her clothes off, stripping her pants and top without any warning. Eve spins, toe smacking off the toilet bowl. </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Shit</em>."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle laughs at her. "It's okay. You can look."</p><p> </p><p>"No, I know, it's - I'm just -" the gauze falls onto the floor. She fumbles to pick it up, thrusting the back of her head into the sink. “<em>Fuck </em> me.” </p><p> </p><p>Another laugh behind her. </p><p> </p><p>The shower finally turns on and Villanelle steps around the frosted glass.</p><p> </p><p>Eve rubs at her scalp, eyes on the lavender lace piled on top of bloody clothes feet away on the floor, and then on Villanelle's body, moving fluidly in water-colour shapes beneath the stream of water.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pops her head out. "Eve?"</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches the mirror. She looks frazzled in it, Villanelle's shy gaze reflected beside her.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah."</p><p> </p><p>"Can you stay?"</p><p> </p><p>Eve turns. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods towards the toilet seat.</p><p> </p><p>"In here?"</p><p> </p><p>"Just until I'm finished. Just for a bit. Don't go. Okay?" Her face looks flushed from the heat, freckled from the sun, water racing in droplets down her cheeks to places Eve's eyes won't reach. "Please."</p><p> </p><p>Eve finds herself nodding. </p><p> </p><p>She settles in, sniffing a half-laugh when Villanelle finally moves back behind the screen but only after checking she’s settled in for good, no chance of changing her mind.</p><p> </p><p>Humming fills the room. The melody’s hard to catch as it weaves in and out of the water. It sounds funny, regimented, like a national anthem. It reminds her of Konstantin. </p><p> </p><p>The thought rushes in, the conversation with Bear pushing her rising feelings of calm, of comfort, straight out the door and flooding her with grief and worry, but most of all, with guilt.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Birmingham</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Guys - thank you so much for all your thoughtful comments and super generous feedback, really makes me wish it was quicker and easier to interact on here like it was on twitter!<br/>Let me know if there's anything you're dying to read, whether it be a scene, a piece of dialogue or just a vague idea you might have💛✌</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>The water finally shuts off. </p><p> </p><p>It was good while it lasted, being in cloudy oblivion, smothered by the clean scent of soap and shampoo and the disorientating but pleasant heat rising and rising, to ruin her hair and make her sweat.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's voice comes through the steam. </p><p> </p><p>"Eve?" she pops her head out. </p><p> </p><p>Eve barely finds her through the fog, the outline of her arms and shoulders slowly coming into view the more she blinks.</p><p> </p><p>"Could you -" she gestures to the complimentary towel packaged on the shelf by the door, "- pass that along, please?"</p><p> </p><p>Eve swats the air a couple of times. There's a wet, expectant smile waiting for her.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks pretty. Clean. Tired, but refreshed. </p><p> </p><p>She unfolds the towel and drops it in Villanelle's open palm, mindful to look away and give space for her to dry off. </p><p> </p><p>The mirror prickles with condensation. </p><p> </p><p>The drops race downward, clearing track after track to reveal fragments of Villanelle behind her - an elbow, a waist, the curve of a smile, a bruise. </p><p> </p><p>Like a game, she finds herself counting them all, one-two-three, littered, purple blossoms in every hidden corner. </p><p> </p><p>She wipes her forehead and drops her gaze. </p><p> </p><p>Her blouse clings, heavy with moisture.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rustles and sighs as she slips into clothes, runs the tap to splash her face, pads around to try and catch her eye.</p><p> </p><p>"Finished."</p><p> </p><p>She feels a hand on her wrist. She lets herself be turned until Villanelle's in front of her, snug in a plush robe, hair combed back in her usual French braid, eyelashes dark and wet. Her bruises look neater in the dewy light.</p><p> </p><p>"Hello."</p><p> </p><p>"Hi."</p><p> </p><p>"Hi."</p><p> </p><p>Something in her skips, fuzzy, charmed. She scoffs affectionately. "You should open the door before we both suffocate."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle reaches back for the handle but doesn't break eye-contact, grinning as fresh air comes in and the steam rushes out. </p><p> </p><p>"I think I prefer you steamed over."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums. "Sure. That is common. Some people are overwhelmed by how sensational I am. They struggle to look directly at me."</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs, quick and loud, a half-snort that turns into something lighter, bubblier, as Villanelle bats her eyelashes and then moves around to look over the first-aid kit. </p><p> </p><p>She wipes the mirror with the back of her sleeve and reaches for the antiseptic, tipping it onto gauze.</p><p> </p><p>"I could do that for you, if you want.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle raises her uninjured eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>“You think you have the stomach for it?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve swipes the pad off her and manoeuvers her down onto the seat, tilting back her head, straightening her shoulders in the hope it’ll shut her up.</p><p> </p><p>“Is your plan to sass-mouth me forever, or -?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods, smirking. </p><p> </p><p>Eve looks up to the ceiling helplessly. Shakes her head. Throws what she hopes is a <em> spare me </em>stare Villanelle completely ignores.</p><p> </p><p>“This is very sexy of you, by the way - looking after me like I am a wounded princess and you are Prince Charming.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are wounded. And you act brattier than anyone I've ever met. Someone needs to take you down a notch.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle dodges Eve’s hand hovering mid-air. </p><p> </p><p>“And you think you’re right for the job?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Villanelle grins, “you get points for trying.” </p><p> </p><p>Eve kicks her gently. </p><p> </p><p>“I will let you take me down a notch, here,” she wraps fingers around Eve's wrist and pulls her hand towards her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>The bottom of Eve’s stomach drops off.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, she thinks Villanelle might kiss her there, right over her knuckles or something just as chivalrous and unbearably forward to catch her off-guard like she'd felt on the bus.</p><p> </p><p>But Villanelle stretches her bottom lip over the ridge of her teeth and uses Eve’s fingers to press the antiseptic to the wound until she’s hissing and groaning and squeezing her eyes, shut but making no move to pull away.</p><p> </p><p>Eve works as gently as she can, Villanelle’s grip loosening with the pain, mouth slack with each dabbing motion.</p><p> </p><p>She cleans and throws away, cleans and throws away. </p><p> </p><p>She does it until there’s just a simple, split line nestled in the plump of Villanelle’s lip, already healing beneath her touch. She presses her thumb to it, bare, just the skin of her fingertip against the wet of Villanelle’s mouth, pliant and warm, open like her big, dark eyes that lift to meet her. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s breath moves against her hand. It shakes in little gusts Eve feels right behind her navel.</p><p> </p><p>She swallows hard.</p><p> </p><p>For the umpteenth time, she remembers the kiss, how rough it had been, how different to this, how similar in its quick, breathless, impatient blur.</p><p> </p><p>She could do it again - her in control this time, straddling Villanelle on a toilet with the loose ties of her robe and the loose ties of her braid, safe under the pretense of after-care, safe in the buzzing of the air-conditioner to fill the heaving silence as her hands wander and unwrap Villanelle in layers.</p><p> </p><p>She imagines.</p><p> </p><p>She imagines and she blinks and the image cuts, replaced by real Villanelle who smells like bergamot and keeps looking at her.</p><p> </p><p>She wipes her hands on her shirt and finishes up - quick, clinical dabs of Vaseline to the cut before moving onto Villanelle’s forehead without so much as a word.</p><p> </p><p>The gash there is bigger, longer.</p><p> </p><p>She gives it the same treatment, blowing softly after each stroke to lessen the sting. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes flutter closed at the feel. </p><p> </p><p>She places three steristrips across and then a small plaster on top for good measure. </p><p> </p><p>It makes Villanelle look endearing, like a naughty toddler who's run into a glass door. She pats the top of her head, laughing when Villanelle’s eyes shoot open and she gnashes her teeth, biting at the air. She hands her the arnica.</p><p> </p><p>“Can you do it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle.”</p><p> </p><p>She tilts her head sideways, jutting out her jaw, beckoning Eve pleadingly from the corner of her eye. “Please.”</p><p> </p><p>The skin there is black and blue, mottled. Eve’s nervous to touch it. </p><p> </p><p>The ice glass had been bad enough, the way Villanelle had trembled at the cold, determined not to flinch. </p><p> </p><p>She takes a deep, steadying breath and caves.</p><p> </p><p>"You know, if you'd just let me come along, we wouldn't be doing this right now," she says as she rubs the balm into the hard angle of Villanelle’s jaw. She’s careful to avoid the bruises on her neck - those were best left untouched. </p><p> </p><p>"You think so? My job is to keep you safe - ow, be <em> gentle </em>!”</p><p> </p><p>"No it's not. And - I can fend for myself."</p><p> </p><p>"Really."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle blinks.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay, no, but - you never give me a chance to try!"</p><p> </p><p>"You don't want to try."</p><p> </p><p>"That's not necessarily -"</p><p> </p><p>"You want to? Because in Oxford, it sounded like a big no."</p><p> </p><p>Eve sets the arnica pot down and folds her arms. She's feeling petty. </p><p> </p><p>"Well - maybe it's a yes!"</p><p> </p><p>"Okay. Then we will have to work on it."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle had already mentioned teaching her to shoot. It still mortified her no matter how many times she got to see Villanelle get her ass handed to her. She could learn to throw a punch though, maybe. She'd always been a fast learner.</p><p> </p><p>She steps back and gives Villanelle a once-over.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you’re done.” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stands. She turns to check herself in the mirror, inspecting her injuries this way and that. She runs her fingers over her jaw, over her plaster.</p><p> </p><p>“I look like shit.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Eve laughs, stepping up beside her. They find each other in the reflection. “You look -” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s mouth quirks, half-smile and half-question.</p><p> </p><p>“- perfect. The usual. It’s annoying, actually.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>The mirror becomes too much then, too intense and too indirect and too familiar and not enough. That’s how she’d gotten her first real look at Villanelle - in a bathroom mirror in a London hospital, in a nurse’s uniform, in a total state of panic.</p><p> </p><p>“Because you’re such a smartass about it.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle elbows her. “And you’re not?”</p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely not.” </p><p> </p><p>“If you saw yourself the way I see you, Eve,” she says softly, drying her hands on the towel draped beside the sink, “with your hair like that,” her eyes flick over Eve’s wild, frizzed curls, “and your new clothes,” they drop to Eve’s sleeveless blouse, “not that I didn’t like what you wore before -”</p><p> </p><p>“Bullshit.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle laughs. “You wouldn’t take your eyes off you.”</p><p> </p><p>The words sling, hard and fast like whiplash.  </p><p> </p><p>She wants to say something witty, sharp, the way she’s so good at, but Villanelle’s already out the door, touching her forearm gently, a soft, fleeting, reassuring squeeze and then nothing but the reflection of her broad, retreating back, and the sweet, lingering smell of her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Verdict?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks around. “I think - maybe I am not dressed for the occasion.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve gawks.  </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s dressed in a sleek, plunge-neck, midnight blue jumpsuit. It’s the most glamorous outfit Eve’s seen her wear since the start of the trip. </p><p> </p><p>Her hair is in a side-plait, the twisted gold of her matte earrings buried in the blonde of her hair. </p><p> </p><p>Her face is nude aside from the cuts and bruises, a light coat of mascara. </p><p> </p><p>She’s leaning back in her seat like a man, crossing her legs like Konstantin, but playing with the rim of her cocktail glass with long, delicate fingers. </p><p> </p><p>She is <em> definitely </em>dressed for the occasion. </p><p> </p><p>“I thought you’d like this place. Private.”</p><p> </p><p>She’d wanted to take Villanelle’s mind off things, to take her somewhere cool and understated, with an extensive drink list and a laid-back crowd. And she’d found <em> Jekyll and Hyde</em>, a prohibition bar stuck behind a bookcase, so aptly named, its title sat staring up from their shared menu with a shit-eating grin.</p><p> </p><p>“I like it,” Villanelle nods. “I don’t know if it likes <em> me,</em>” she motions to her banged-up forehead, “the bartender was very rude.”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s probably worried about you. On the look-out for your wife-beating boyfriend.” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sips her cocktail. “I like women, Eve. I think I make that very clear.”</p><p> </p><p>“As day.”</p><p> </p><p>“Big dick energy.”</p><p> </p><p>She chokes. “What ?”</p><p> </p><p>“It is what Moose calls it. He says I have it. I don’t have a dick - I don’t need one,” she wrinkles her nose and makes Eve flush, “but if I had one, yes, it would be big. Size matters. Everything else is what people tell themselves to feel good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please stop talking about dicks. <em> Not </em> the place.” Or time. <em> Ever</em>. She didn’t want to hear it from Villanelle’s mouth ever again. It made her feel dirty. And ragey.</p><p> </p><p>“Usually I am very good at bars. I’m a <em> hit.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t need to hear it.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t think it’s true?”</p><p> </p><p>Why she thought a speak-easy would be a good idea, she had no idea. </p><p> </p><p>Tipsy Villanelle was mouthy Villanelle and Eve was half-way to footing her the bill and leaving.</p><p> </p><p>“Honestly? I don’t really concern myself with your flirting habits.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m a hit with <em> you,</em>” Villanelle challenges. </p><p> </p><p>Eve finishes her Margarita and motions to Villanelle’s near-empty Old Fashioned.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll get the next round.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hands over her credit card. “No you won’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. I will.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle drains her drink. Her eyes flash, coppery in the dim light as she changes tack. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you trying to get me drunk?” </p><p> </p><p>“And why would I do that?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” she shrugs innocently, insisting until Eve finally takes the card. “Because you like my company? You think I’m funny. You think I have excellent stories. You think I look nice tonight.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re crossing a line.” </p><p> </p><p>They’d already crossed the line. One year ago, when she’d learned exactly what noises Villanelle made when she touched herself, and then again three months back, when she’d masturbated angrily to the image of Villanelle's kiss and the sound of her confession, tinny through the plush bear.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stands so fast, her chair scrapes back and causes Eve to wobble. “Get me another whiskey. And peanuts.”</p><p> </p><p>Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are glassy. She’s smiling, bossy - not that Eve minded after the day they’d had - and she owed it to her, so she lets it slide. It’s the way Villanelle says it though, quiet, inviting, confident but gentle, it’s - nice.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t move,” she points, just to gain the upper hand, “I can’t afford to leave you unsupervised.”</p><p> </p><p>“I will be on my best behaviour,” Villanelle straightens. “Go. The peanuts, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve rolls her eyes and heads over to the bar. </p><p> </p><p>The alcohol’s already kicked in. She feels fuzzy around the edges, warm enough to let her guard down, to let Villanelle take the piss out of her and play footsie with her under the table, to steal sips of her drink and tell her funny stories.</p><p> </p><p>It’s the first time in forever she’s been drunk with someone.</p><p> </p><p>She used to make a habit of it - after-work pints with Bill, Saturday tequila with Elena, lazy sofa dates with Niko and a bottle of red. She missed the feeling of being loose, of feeling safe and silly and spontaneous. She missed the feeling of being flattered, of being admired, the way Villanelle does, all curious eyes and persistence.</p><p> </p><p>After Niko and Kenny, drinking had become a medicine, a band-aid to numb her out, to knock her out. </p><p> </p><p>With Villanelle, it’s <em> fun</em>. There’s a point to it, a lightness - drinking to have a good time, to soften each other, to play. The same way eating with Villanelle meant indulging in flavour instead of just filling up, the way chatting with Villanelle meant discovering her instead of just filling silence. </p><p> </p><p>She grabs the drinks and snacks and returns to the table, relieved to find Villanelle where she’d left her, nothing broken and no one bleeding.</p><p> </p><p>When she settles in, Villanelle grabs a fistful of peanuts and crunches through them thoughtfully.</p><p> </p><p>“You look nice in skirts.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve crosses her legs. Villanelle’s eyes fall to her bare knees. “They’re not my favourite.”</p><p> </p><p>“They show off your legs. They should be.”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs, crossing and uncrossing, fidgeting to pull the seam of her pencil skirt down. She hates Villanelle for it, for how tight it is, how high-waisted, how colourful and perfect. </p><p> </p><p>She happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the glass door on the way in, and she did look fantastic - the guy at the bar told her so, and then the woman who’d served her.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome,” Villanelle leans forward, clinking the ice in her drink. “I think a lot of people here agree.” </p><p> </p><p>Eve scoffs. She turns to look out at the bar, men and women in their thirties and forties coupled up at small, mahogany tables, some drowned in conversation, others with wandering attention. </p><p> </p><p>She takes a sip of her cocktail and rests her head back against the wall. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you jealous?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Villanelle says sweetly. “I don’t get jealous.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really.” </p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve digs her elbow into the table and digs her chin into her palm. “You’re literally the most petulant, throw-my-toys-out-of-the-pram human being I’ve ever met. You get jealous.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why would I be jealous?” she smiles. “You are here having a drink with me, talking to me, looking at me. You agreed to go on a road-trip with me. You watched me shower when I asked you to, you played nurse, you let me dress you in beautiful clothes and you have had dinner with me more times than I can count. What do I have to be jealous of?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve rips a piece of napkin and chucks it across the table. Villanelle dodges it with a laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“If I remember correctly, you are the jealous one, no? Coming into my apartment unannounced -”</p><p> </p><p>“For the sake of work.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. On a weekend.” </p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t want to think about it. She’d hated it - Villanelle’s obnoxious, rented Shoreditch apartment, with her oversized piano and unmade bed. </p><p> </p><p>“Since when were you ever Monday-to-Friday?”</p><p> </p><p>“I had plans, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I realise that. I don’t remember a threesome being in your contract.” </p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope.”</p><p> </p><p>“It was extra-curricular.”</p><p> </p><p>“It was unprofessional.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shakes her head, reaching for Eve’s hand before she can pull away. “See? You are still jealous.”  </p><p> </p><p>Eve huffs. She tries to take her hand back but Villanelle anchors it to the table with her own, firm palm against her knuckles, fingertips to her wrist. “Don’t flatter yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t need to.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t jealous, I was - caught off-guard.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. Three beautiful women in one flat -”</p><p> </p><p>“They weren’t beautiful.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle dips her chin, trying to hide her smirk as she squeezes her wrist gently. “Eve.” </p><p> </p><p>“They weren’t!” she jerks her hand away finally. “They looked - slutty,” she gulps her drink. The salt burns down her throat. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>No</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>She groans. “Fine. Cheap.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, Eve,” Villanelle slumps back. “They weren’t prostitutes. If I want sex, I don’t need to pay for it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. What about Amsterdam, then?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grimaces. “Amsterdam? What are you talking about?”</p><p> </p><p>“You were there, remember? Must’ve been tempting - hot, naked women at your fingertips, fresh off a roleplay,” she tries to keep the bite out of her voice but she’s jealous, of course she is, she’s totally the jealous type, always had been. Hell, she’d been jealous of Gemma and she hadn’t even wanted Niko all that much by that point. “Would you say better or worse than Barcelona?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” Villanelle hums. “You are still thinking about that? Look,” she swipes her glass to the side to make space for her forearms, folding them and then leaning in seriously. “I spent two days waiting for you to come. The kill? I did it for you. I thought maybe you were -” she shrugs sheepishly, “tired of me. With your boring Ghost and your new projects.”</p><p> </p><p>It dawns on Eve then, the possibility that Carolyn had sabotaged it all, sending Jess instead of her, to - what? Keep them apart? Keep her distracted, disinterested? Like that could ever work.</p><p> </p><p>“And you didn’t come. I waited and you didn’t come. I had a very - <em> shitty </em>time.”</p><p> </p><p>“You wanted me there.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stares at her. She’d wanted her to come.</p><p> </p><p>“Why didn’t you say so?” </p><p> </p><p>“I sent a postcard to your work.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Carolyn</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t get it.” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods. Eats the rest of the peanuts.</p><p> </p><p>"Everything I did - it was for you. To keep you chasing me. To keep you wanting me. You think I look at other women?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve gives her, her best <em> are you kidding? </em> glare. Her pulse betrays her, jackhammering like a rabbit’s. She can feel it in her burning ears above the humming chatter. She’s grateful for the low light.</p><p> </p><p>“I look at you, Eve. I have always looked at you, from the beginning. I kiss someone? I think of you,” she leans back across the table, eyes dark, alert. Eve feels them in the pit of her stomach.  “I fuck them? I think of you -”</p><p> </p><p>Her thighs twitch. She fists her napkin until it balls in her sweating palm. </p><p> </p><p>“I see a woman in the street? I imagine it’s you, in Barcelona, in Berlin, everywhere I go, it’s you. Nobody else. You want the truth?”</p><p> </p><p>“I - think you've already - Villanelle -” her eyes dart nervously around the bar. </p><p> </p><p>Nobody’s watching them. Nobody knows. Nobody cares.  </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle digs her elbow into the table and parks her chin in her hand. She gives her drink a once-over, swirling, lifting and then changing her mind. </p><p> </p><p>Eve wishes she’d down the lot; hopes it’ll leave the night in scattered, blurry fragments. </p><p> </p><p>“I let you inside of me.”</p><p> </p><p>She sputters on nothing. “With a knife.”</p><p> </p><p>“I let you in my bed. I let you mark me -”</p><p> </p><p>“You marked <em> me </em> -”</p><p> </p><p>“- I liked it,” she admits. She lets her arm drop and relaxes back. </p><p> </p><p>Eve watches her hand move across the twisted knot of her jumpsuit, resting against the place she remembers too well. </p><p> </p><p>Her tits look amazing. There are twin freckles between them, nestled in the pale, untouched skin of her cleavage. </p><p> </p><p>Eve folds her arms reflexively. </p><p> </p><p>"No one's ever - not like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve lets out a small groan. </p><p> </p><p>She’s drunk. God, she’s so drunk. She’s on her fourth Margarita and the room’s going to spin when she gets up and she’s going to feel it all in the morning. She forgets about her make-up and presses her fingertips into her eyes, rubbing at them and then down her cheeks, her chin, her neck in despair.    </p><p> </p><p>“I think there’s a penetration joke in there somewhere.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sigh-laughs, caught by surprise. It looks good on her.</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches the cogs turn.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you ever think about what would have happened if you hadn't?"</p><p> </p><p>"...stabbed you?"</p><p> </p><p>"Stabbed, yes. Turned your back to me."</p><p> </p><p>"It never would've worked."</p><p> </p><p>"No? Not in Paris?"</p><p> </p><p>She lets herself imagine for a second - Villanelle, unshowered, covered in sweat and grime and Russia, fresh out of prison and onto bigger things, like coaxing her through multiple orgasms after fucking her right into the bed. She fidgets in her chair. "For a night, maybe."</p><p> </p><p>"A night," Villanelle licks her lips. "And Alaska? More than a night," she cracks a small, mischievous smile.</p><p> </p><p>"Think we've already been through the logistics of Alaska."</p><p> </p><p>"I wanted you in my bed. I can be romantic -"</p><p> </p><p>"Oh - I <em> know.</em>"</p><p> </p><p>Eve had wanted to. She remembers it clear as anything - the nerve-sizzling fear she’d felt, right on the cusp of something; the anticipation and arousal and wonder, of seeing Villanelle so open and near; the stillness in her, a No Man’s Land. Paris had looked good on her, with its charcoal sky and filthy fumes. She missed it. She thought about it all the time.</p><p> </p><p>"And then Rome? <em> So </em> many chances to get your hands on me, Eve,” she says good-naturedly, as if this entire trip wasn’t another. “I would have made you spaghetti, pizza, whatever you want. Good wine. Gelato. I would've looked after you," she says softly. Eve almost doesn’t hear it, practically whispered between them like a closely-kept secret.</p><p> </p><p>"It wasn't real."</p><p> </p><p>"I know."</p><p> </p><p>"Not like this,” she confesses. Not like the last ten days had been, dancing and dodging towards each other.</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not like it is now."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks at her expectantly. </p><p> </p><p>This was <em> hard.</em> And the concept of liquid courage was bullshit.</p><p> </p><p>"Honest. Painful - literally," she rotates her shoulder. "Terrifying."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s face softens. Eve feels her foot beneath the table, searching out her own, resting beside her own. "Are you scared?"</p><p> </p><p>Yes. No.</p><p> </p><p>“Are <em> you</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle finishes the last of her drink and rubs her hands clean. “A little, sure.”</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t expected that. The reply lodges in her throat and comes out as a dumbfounded nod. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hadn’t seemed scared of anything. Eve had never seen her be, not of death, of misadventure, of solitude. She’d always been this playful, dangerous thing, slipping right out of her hands, out for the chase with her knowing smile and perfect face.</p><p> </p><p>Not lately, though. Lately, Eve sat front row to a fear she’s sure only she’d been privy to - fear of loss, of loneliness. Fear of being seen.</p><p> </p><p>And she saw Villanelle. It felt like she saw her more and more every day. Instead of running from it, she wanted to dive right in, head-first, to let Villanelle look right back and never stop.</p><p> </p><p>“Me too.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle watches her. She does it with so much intensity, in a way only half a dozen cocktails could allow, and Eve feels the heady mix of alcohol and being admired at such close range go straight to her head.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean -” Here she goes. Now or never. She’s going to hate herself. “A little less, since -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s tongue darts across her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Since?”</p><p> </p><p>“I figured - there’s only so much you can fear someone once you’ve heard them - you know - during -” Nope. <em> Nope</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“During...”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>During </em>,” she sighs. “During their - most intimate -” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes go comically large, mouth quivering, brimming with stifled laughter until it’s not, until it’s exploding, loud and uncontrollable so it makes her whole body shake while Eve waits for the ground to swallow her up. </p><p> </p><p>“Eve. You are too much!” she says through a choked cackle, wiping the corners of her eyes. “You can say it. You are an adult.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shh.”</p><p> </p><p>“Say it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut <em> up,</em>” she hisses.</p><p> </p><p>“Say it,” Villanelle sing-songs, tapping her with her foot urgingly. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re in <em> public</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grins and grins. “Masturbate. When people masturbate,” she says confidently and Eve kicks her, she kicks so hard Villanelle kicks right back, bursting into giggles again. “Oh, relax. Let yourself go for once.” A breath. “And stop looking at me like that! You liked it!”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m getting another drink.”</p><p> </p><p>“No you’re not.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m drinking until one of us blacks out. Me first, preferably.” She grabs her wallet, moving to stand just before Villanelle grabs her wrist and pulls her back down. She feels Villanelle’s feet wrap around her ankle to anchor her.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>The last-call bell rings. It slices right through the memory of Villanelle, coming in her ear, the sound of her sighs lighter and softer, more withheld than Eve had expected, so quiet she’d had to strain to hear it above the sound of her creaky bed, slamming into the wall as she’d ridden Hugo to a lightning-bolt climax.</p><p> </p><p>She glances at her watch to avoid the way Villanelle looks at her, suggestive but playful, teasing her. “I’m taking you home.”</p><p> </p><p>“Better make the most of it since it’s the only time you’ll get to.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle laughs. “The only time you will let me take you to bed?”</p><p> </p><p>“Put. Put to bed.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Villanelle says casually. “I think I got it right the first time,” she throws in and Eve’s whole body alights and stays ablaze, even after Villanelle’s left a hefty tip, helped her with her coat and called an Uber to take them back to the hotel.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. York</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>🍰</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>She thought she felt shit.</p><p> </p><p>She’d woken up too-early, cotton-mouthed and sore as the room spun, Villanelle’s snoring louder and hoarser in her blind-drunk pile.</p><p> </p><p>And then she’d looked over and found her hanging half off the bed, drooling, only partially in pyjamas, jewellery and make-up still clinging to her, pillows on the floor.</p><p> </p><p>She looks over again now. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sits curled against the car door, feet on the dash. She looks out the window with bleary eyes and a grumpy mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Never thought I’d say it, but -”</p><p> </p><p>“Then don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs. She turns up the radio, secretly pleased when Villanelle just rolls over and takes the blare of disco without so much as a pout.</p><p> </p><p>“You did it to yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle whines, scrunching her eyes shut against the melting sun. She blasts the aircon. Finishes the coffee Eve stopped to get on the way. Whines again when Eve swirls accidentally and almost makes her wretch.</p><p> </p><p>“You are supposed to feel sorry for me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, am I? Is that how this goes?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Villanelle says softly. “You are supposed to say,” she puts on her best East Coast accent, “don’t worry, baby, I’m looking after you today. First, a big lunch and then an awesome walking tour I've already booked <em> and </em> paid for.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve winces. “I do not sound like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle manages a smile.</p><p> </p><p>“And I would never, ever call you baby. <em> Gross</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?"</p><p> </p><p>“It just is. Pet names are gross.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you could. Because I don’t feel good. You could call me that - it would make me feel better.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know what would make you feel <em> even </em> better?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a pathetic, little face, huffing as she presses her forehead to the cool glass.</p><p> </p><p>“Not trashing the mini-bar and blasting Blondie at four a.m. We almost got kicked out.”</p><p> </p><p>“But - I like Blondie,” she whispers.</p><p> </p><p>It almost makes Eve feel bad. Almost. </p><p> </p><p>It makes her feel bad enough to sacrifice her own water bottle and then her own doughnut as Villanelle munches through it gingerly, sneaking glances to make sure she’s not in trouble.</p><p> </p><p>It’s sweet, kind of.</p><p> </p><p>Eve revels in it - being in control for once, driving at a pace that suits her, listening to the stations she likes, sitting in comfortable silence instead of navigating the aftermath of last night and how charged and how good it had been. </p><p> </p><p>For the next hour, she watches Villanelle fall in and out of naps. When she changes lanes, she does it slowly, careful not to jostle her. When her head lulls forward, she lifts it back against the seat, laughing at the tiny grunts of protest it earns her.</p><p> </p><p>And when Elton comes on and Villanelle’s eyes flutter open, Eve turns it up for her and zones in on the coiling, swelling feeling inside her, cautious at first and then big and bright when Villanelle starts to hum along.</p><p> </p><p>“Knew you could sing.”</p><p> </p><p>“I love this song.”</p><p> </p><p>“Me too,” Eve says, grimacing as Villanelle hits the chorus, too loud and too dramatic for the level of hung-over she is. “You little prick.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I am, oh yeah!” she sings, “Are you ready?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you ready for love?”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes I am -”</p><p> </p><p>“Stop.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes I am -”</p><p> </p><p>“Can you just -” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes I <em> am</em>!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stares at the large glass doors in front of them with pure wonder, eyes wide like saucers. It’s a good look. Eve gloats a little to know she’s the cause.</p><p> </p><p>“My turn.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really? Because if this is a joke, Eve -" </p><p> </p><p>“Nope,” she smiles. “I booked ahead." </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sighs dreamily, surprised. She steps up to the window display, palms pressed to the cool surface, face so close Eve can see the glass cloud over with every excited breath.</p><p> </p><p>There are rows and rows of tarts, eclairs, cakes of all shapes and colours so bright they almost don’t look real. </p><p> </p><p>Eve finds everything too sickly-sweet, glazed, plastic. </p><p> </p><p>Then again, they weren’t here for her. </p><p> </p><p>She’ll get a tea, a scone, and be done with it. </p><p> </p><p>“You are the best. You know what? I am going to eat all of that, easy,” she points to the pyramid of macarons and Eve has absolutely no doubt she’s telling the truth.</p><p> </p><p>She’d had a hunch she’d nail it with <em> Betty’s</em>. She knew the way to Villanelle’s good mood was through her stomach. She’d got it spot on with the bar.</p><p> </p><p>Still, being sat across from Villanelle at posh afternoon tea, watching her finish off a three-tiered chocolate cake and half a dozen macarons is something she never knew she needed. </p><p> </p><p>Sure, Villanelle still ate like a prison escapee and sucked at dinner-talk, but she’d never looked more blissfully care-free, not since the trip, not in Carolyn’s updates on her, not for a while, always in some funk, always out of reach.  </p><p> </p><p>Eve finally had her where she wanted her - happy. Playful. Distracted from grieving and scheming and tip-toeing around each other. </p><p> </p><p>Dessert meant Villanelle at her finest.</p><p> </p><p>And even though Eve struggles to finish her finger sandwiches and stares wistfully at her empty pot of tea, watching Villanelle mop crumbs off her plate with her finger almost makes up for how much <em> none </em> of this is <em> Eve’s thing. </em></p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pops a macaron in her mouth. She’d put away her whole share of sandwiches, a scone slathered in clotted cream and a slice of cake to <em> finish things off. </em> </p><p> </p><p>“This is -” she moans, swallowing, “My hang-over is much better now, thank you. How did you -”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s you. It’s cake. Seemed like a no-brainer.”</p><p> </p><p>“But this place -” </p><p> </p><p>“Has a three-week waiting list, yeah, I know. I’m sneaky.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles. “Don’t worry about it. You needed a pick-me-up.”</p><p> </p><p>“I think the pick-me-up was last night. And I regret it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ouch." </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle wipes her mouth and leans forward on an elbow. “The drinking. I regret the drinking. Being on a date with you? That’s different.” </p><p> </p><p>“Not a date.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” she shrugs. “You can call it whatever you want, if it makes you feel better.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re awfully perky for someone who woke up face-down in drool." </p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t see it.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve bites back a grin, staring pointedly at the table. “Unfortunately, I did.” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks at her through a frown, “Does it put you off?" </p><p> </p><p>“A little.” </p><p> </p><p>“Only a little?”</p><p> </p><p>“A little, yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” she straightens, pulling the stand of macarons towards herself. “So do you want to see how many I can put in my mouth?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve drops her head, pushing her fingers into her eyes - a resounding <em> no</em>.  </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle does it anyway, eating two in one go, a pink and a green one stuffed into each cheek. </p><p> </p><p>“Look.”</p><p> </p><p>“Two weeks and you’re still disgusting.”</p><p> </p><p>“Two weeks and you are still smoking.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve tries to shoot her a look but the waitress comes at last, topping up their drinks and doing nothing to restrain Villanelle from giving herself a cavity.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you going to help me with this?” she points to her plate. </p><p> </p><p>Eve couldn’t think of anything worse - the green ones always tasted like mint or matcha, neither of which she liked, and the pink ones were too sweet or too sour, like bubblegum or rhubarb. </p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head and starts to cherry-pick her way through some of Villanelle’s left-over icing for good measure </p><p> </p><p>“More of a cake fan.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nudges the plate, gesturing for her to help herself to more. </p><p> </p><p>“Did you like the one I made for your birthday?”</p><p> </p><p>She sets her fork down. Her stomach sinks. She takes a sip of her tea and looks at Villanelle through narrowed, semi-playful eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Who told you my birthday? And - hate to break it to you, but the whole thing came nice and neat in its original box." </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, whatever - I <em> tried</em>!” </p><p> </p><p>“You did.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Of course. I practised - a <em> lot</em>. It wasn’t -”</p><p> </p><p>“Safe for consumption?”</p><p> </p><p>“Pretty. Too hot, in Barcelona - the icing was - very sticky, very -” her nose wrinkles in disapproval. It makes Eve laugh. “I think maybe I am better at eating than baking.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay, it’s the thought that counts, right?” </p><p> </p><p>She tries to picture Villanelle all domesticated, in a frilly apron, holding a spatula, putting more frosting in her mouth than on the cake. The imaginary kitchen’s a mess and cracked eggs lie scattered everywhere, cake batter on every surface, all over Villanelle. </p><p> </p><p>The cake would be a shitshow. Naturally. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle was a good cook but something about baking specifically, about putting together a complex recipe, tells her Villanelle wouldn’t have the patience nor finesse for it. Which makes it even more endearing. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sips her tea, little finger in the air to make her laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah - I’d say you’re a lot better at eating.” </p><p> </p><p>She brightens. “So - did you like it?” </p><p> </p><p>Eve looks at her sheepishly. </p><p> </p><p>The moment she’d opened the box, she’d felt overcome with fury, pissed at Villanelle’s nerve. And then she’d been terrified the double-decker had actually been an explosive or another little arsenic joke. And then upset and hungry and flattered and aroused, and finally back to furious, when the cake had ricocheted, six feet in the air only to splatter in Kenny’s spot.</p><p> </p><p>She rubs her brow. “I um - wasn’t exactly at my best.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“But - I appreciate it - thank you. It was - the whole bus thing was -” she flushes, “a dick move, but - thank you.” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle still looks disheartened.  </p><p> </p><p>She knows she should lie at least, try to spare Villanelle’s feelings. She used to be so good at lying. Now it felt wrong, even by omission, and God, was she ever going to get started on Konstantin.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I will try to make you another one.” </p><p> </p><p>Eve nods. Fidgets. Clutches at straws. “Yeah. Okay. One day," she says gently, trying to be encouraging. "For what it’s worth - I saved the bear.” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sets her teacup down. “You liked it.” </p><p> </p><p><em> Liked it. </em> She presses down in her seat and the seat presses back.</p><p> </p><p>“Aside from breaking and entering into my apartment -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle cringes. </p><p> </p><p>“It was -” bizarre and sweet and thoughtful and creepy.  “- I liked it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I bought it in a store in London, that place was psychopathic,” she says.  </p><p> </p><p>Eve scoffs.  </p><p> </p><p>“There were a lot of screaming children, it was the worst, like an asylum.”</p><p> </p><p>“I still have it - somewhere. I don’t think the voice recording works anymore.” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks at her carefully. Takes another slow sip, eyes bright but shy. </p><p> </p><p>“Nice touch, by the way.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” she says softly. She urges Eve to have more frosting. “There were a lot of things I wanted to say, I wanted to - record something else for you, but - you took me by surprise.”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t know I still could.”</p><p> </p><p>The silence swims. The cafe’s warm, filled with background chatter and the smell of sugar. </p><p> </p><p>Eve can still smell Villanelle above it all, perfume wafting across the table. She reckons she could pinpoint her in a room full of people just by scent alone. She’d become so attuned to it, almost Pavlovian. </p><p> </p><p>It liked to ripple through her every now and then, sharp and weightless. </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t really - know what I was thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think you were.” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” she laughs. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s smiling, friendly, fond.</p><p> </p><p>It’s awkward then. What was Eve supposed to say? <em> I kissed you because I panicked? Because I wanted to disarm you? Because I wanted to fight? Because I wanted to? </em></p><p> </p><p>She clears her throat. “Sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums. “You don’t have to be sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“For - after. The uh -” she makes a head-butting motion, pointing to her own forehead.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Sure." </p><p> </p><p>“I had a lot of - feelings.” </p><p> </p><p>“Feelings,” Villanelle nods in understanding. “Those are - important.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“Healthy coping mechanisms - those are important too.” </p><p> </p><p>“Right.”</p><p> </p><p>“Head-butting a psychopath -” she bops her head side to side. The word sits, weird and unwelcome. </p><p> </p><p>Eve pushes it away. “Not a healthy coping mechanism.” </p><p> </p><p>“Probably not.”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Villanelle mirrors softly. She sits back, analysing the empty cake stand. </p><p> </p><p>Eve wonders if she’s thinking about ordering more until she rolls up her napkin and calls it quits. </p><p> </p><p>She never thought she’d see the day, but there it was. Villanelle, beaten by food. Oddly satisfying. </p><p> </p><p>“I am though, you know - I am sorry,” she says seriously. It feels like a boulder rolled off her chest, like she can finally sit easy, breathe free.  </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle locks eyes with the waitress and then with her. “For the kiss.” </p><p> </p><p>“The head-butt, mostly."</p><p> </p><p>“Mostly.” </p><p> </p><p>She finds herself stretching beneath the table to let her foot touch Villanelle's ankle, a white flag of sorts (another one). And then that doesn’t do so she slips out of her Birkenstock and rests her bare toes on top of Villanelle’s peep-toe ballet pump.</p><p> </p><p>"Sorry,” she mouths yet again because it somehow doesn't feel like enough.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle taps her gently. Taps her again and reaches for her across the linen tablecloth. It’s a halfway house between a handhold and a touch, a brush of thumb to knuckle, to wrist, a squeeze. </p><p> </p><p>“For the head-butt.”</p><p> </p><p>“Specifically the head-butt,” Eve nods, the corners of her eyes crinkling.  </p><p> </p><p>“As long as it is for the head-butt, specifically," Villanelle says off-hand but it’s dripping with suggestion, honey-sweet and flirtatious in the bright light of day, under no cover of alcohol or pretense.  </p><p> </p><p>Eve feels her face burn. There’s no candle-light to hide behind. She takes a deep breath. </p><p> </p><p>“So, I liked the bear." </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s gaze sparkles. “Back to the bear.”</p><p> </p><p>“Totally unexpected. Entertaining,” she points out helpfully, and it had been, God had it been, for hours on end in her lonely little flat, she will never let Villanelle know how much.  </p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad you had fun with it.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve swallows hard. Combs her hair back. “I actually have another thing planned.” </p><p> </p><p>“Is it my birthday?” </p><p> </p><p>She pops money inside the velvet menu and waits for Villanelle to guess.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it a threesome?”</p><p> </p><p>She snorts. “Are you fucking kidding me?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs but she knows exactly what she’s doing, grinning as she follows Eve out into the hot summer’s day, making a pantomime-y show of looking around as if Eve’s magically hidden her present. </p><p> </p><p>Eve nods towards the row of open top buses huddled near the town square. She hears Villanelle cackle beside her.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve. You are trying to give me PTSD.” </p><p> </p><p>“You want to walk in this heat?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. You are very romantic,” Villanelle teases, grabbing her hand to pull her along, so quick and giddy Eve barely gets to show her e-tickets before she’s being pulled to top deck, front and centre. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle dives in, yanking her down beside her. Her knees start to bounce, hands tapping against her thighs as she looks around for a map or a tour guide or headphones. </p><p> </p><p>Eve presses a palm over her legs to settle her.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's eyes snap up. “You know York used to be the capital of England?” </p><p> </p><p><em> This. Again.</em> “Go figure.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, 1298. King George. No. King Edward. No.” </p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle.” </p><p> </p><p>“Six years - not very long, but it definitely counts!” she reasons. She starts talking about the various constituents of parliament or the monarchy or whatever the hell existed back then. </p><p> </p><p>The irrational part of Eve’s brain tells her to launch herself off the side. The rational part waits patiently for the tour guide to take over, relieved when a portly little woman with a plastic visor and a cardigan tied around her shoulders comes up the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stops mid-sentence, delighted. She perks up in her seat, sitting up straight like a school-kid, patient as she waits for things to be handed out.</p><p> </p><p>Eve sacrifices the headset they get between them. She planned to spend the afternoon aimlessly looking around, letting the summer breeze blow away the remnants of her hangover.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s into it though, enough for the both of them. Eve wonders whether a little notepad might come out a bit later so she can jot down all the fun history facts she ends up learning. </p><p> </p><p>She glances over to find her smiling back, ears covered.</p><p> </p><p>“You look ridiculous."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shakes her head, motioning to her headphones and mouthing <em> I can’t hear you </em> which is a lie. </p><p> </p><p>Eve pulls one back. “You’re nowhere near as cool as I thought.” </p><p> </p><p>“You thought I was cool?” she beams.</p><p> </p><p>Eve rolls her eyes and sits back, arms folded. She hears Villanelle’s laugh beneath the boom of the mic as their guide starts to talk.</p><p> </p><p>For all the ways Eve doesn’t want to be here, this is close to perfect - being able to sit next to each other on a bus like civil people. </p><p> </p><p>She likes the way Villanelle insists on interpreting whatever's coming through her headphones just to keep her up to speed. Likes the way Villanelle points things out very carefully to her - a church here and a wonky pub there. Likes how Villanelle leans into her and says, "Come on, Eve, you are being a party pooper," just before the tour guide turns to them and the mic screeches as if on queue. </p><p> </p><p>"Hello, excuse me, yes - hello," she sing-songs, "am I interrupting you both?" </p><p> </p><p>Eve hadn't realised she'd signed up for junior high all over again.</p><p> </p><p>"Not at all," Villanelle smiles politely, donning her best cut-glass accent. It almost gives Eve whiplash. </p><p> </p><p>"Lovely. Would you like to come up here and take over?" </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sobers. She looks around the bus carefully - measuring up her audience - then stands with a shrug. </p><p> </p><p>Eve shrinks in her seat, mortified.</p><p> </p><p>"I'll do my best -" she leans forward as her eyes drop to the name-tag, "- Barbara."</p><p> </p><p>Barbara steps back. Clutches the mic. "It was <em> rhetorical</em>." </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle gives a saccharine smile, pleased, gloating as she sprawls back down and starts chatting again. </p><p> </p><p>“This is perfect.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve tries so hard not to look at her, to pander to her before they get kicked off. Barbara's eyes stalk them, not that they stop Villanelle.</p><p> </p><p>"I am having the time of my life," she says sardonically. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re easy," Eve hisses, hurrying with, “to please.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, you are trying to please me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Please/shut up - same thing.” </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle chuckles. “You like it when I talk. You like it when I do accents.”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re <em> the </em> single most obnoxious thing I’ve ever heard.” </p><p> </p><p>The tour guide glares and glares.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pays no mind. “I can tell you things like, <em> Ya nikogda nichego tak silno ne hotela, kak hochu tebya,</em>" she says and watches Eve's mouth fall open. "See?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve shuts it.</p><p> </p><p>“You like the way it sounds, it's obvious -”</p><p> </p><p>“You can't just - ?” she hisses.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle wiggles her eyebrows, clearly enjoying the way Eve tries so hard not to beg for a translation. And then she changes tack and Eve forgets to be annoyed. Or remembers. </p><p> </p><p>“So does this count as another date?” </p><p> </p><p>She stares blankly.</p><p> </p><p>“After last night. You are on a roll.”</p><p> </p><p>“I will throw you off, I swear.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle plants her hand between them on the seat so she can lean in again. “You are - pulling off all the stops.”</p><p> </p><p>“Pulling out.”</p><p> </p><p>“Gross, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve elbows her. Tries to anyway, but it's hard, when Villanelle’s hand is warm against her own, a fraction sweaty, little fingers fitted side by side like pieces of a puzzle. She feels it macroscopically, in every tiny fibre of her being, shooting all the way up her arm and spreading through her chest like lava. </p><p> </p><p>Her hand twitches. She grips the seat.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle lifts her pinky and wraps it around her own.</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle -” </p><p> </p><p>But Villanelle’s already busy looking back out onto the street, overly-invested and unassuming. She'd held her like this last night across the table and then an hour ago, gifting little touches to the mountains of her knuckles and the ridges of her bones. Both times had lingered but been short-lived and Eve hadn’t known whether to be grateful or disappointed.</p><p> </p><p>Now it lingers and lingers and lingers, and Villanelle holds steady, linked to her, cautious but wanting, eyes avoidant but body angled towards her.</p><p> </p><p>It stops Eve's breath. She’s scared to exhale, to snuff out the flicker. She’s scared that if she so much as shifts, Villanelle will spook. Or maybe she would. She’s not sure.</p><p> </p><p>She closes her eyes and lets the city noise engulf her: the sound of traffic and life and narration. She focuses on the smell and feel of Villanelle beside her, dressed in colour and fresh like wildflowers. She zones in on the way her heart beats and the way her thighs tense, the plastic seat hard and hot against her back.</p><p> </p><p>And she turns her palm up, watching the side of Villanelle’s mouth curve into a smile.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle settles her own on top, hovering for a semi-second before letting the full weight bear down on Eve’s lifeline. Her hand feels small beneath Villanelle's own and yet she's the one doing the holding, eventually, slipping her fingers through Villanelle's to accommodate. </p><p> </p><p>“All the stops.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve scoffs. Gives a warning squeeze.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop you fidgeting.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums, unconvinced, and, under the pretense of a stretch, pulls their linked hands into the cocoon of her lap. She rests her other hand on top, bracketing Eve’s gently.</p><p> </p><p>It feels strange but comforting, not to mention horribly soppy in a prepubescent sort of way.</p><p> </p><p>She remembers all the times she’d spent on school buses, homework in her lap instead of someone’s hand, head on the backrest instead of someone’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>She hadn't minded it then, actively avoided stuff like this all through college and with Niko.</p><p> </p><p>Now she had a woman-child sitting next to her, charming her in the most unexpected way - or was it the other way around? After all, she'd gone above and beyond booking the patisserie of her wildest nightmares just to see Villanelle perk up.</p><p> </p><p>Barbara starts on about York’s famous architects. It makes her want to gouge her own eyes out. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hunkers down to listen, not once loosening her hold as she props a foot up on the seat to get comfortable. </p><p> </p><p>Eve stares at her lap. Up to Villanelle’s face. Down to her lap. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle side-eyes her with a raised eyebrow. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you listening or are you flirting?” </p><p> </p><p>“Do you have a death wish?” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” she stage-whispers, “this is important, Eve,” as if the way they were touching each other wasn’t, as if it wasn’t something they really, really needed to talk about or not talk about or pretend not to want to talk about.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care.” </p><p> </p><p>“You should. Nice buildings. Barbara is a natural.”</p><p> </p><p>“Everything from - what - the fifteenth century? To - I don't have a fucking clue - a hundred years ago? Looks exactly the same.”  </p><p> </p><p>"Yes, you are very wrong. You should listen more. Maybe you will learn something." </p><p> </p><p>"So I can put my friends to sleep?" </p><p> </p><p>“You brought us here, <em> doragaya.</em>” </p><p> </p><p>“For your benefit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm,” Villanelle smiles slyly but her eyes shine full of warmth and gratitude. “Yes, you are very thoughtful. I am benefitting a lot,” she lifts their hands slightly to prove a point.</p><p> </p><p>“Keep a tight hold. It’s the only thing stopping me from sending you into next week.</p><p> </p><p>“Again? Once was not enough for you?” </p><p> </p><p>“Could’ve fought back.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle softens. “No.”</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t, not at all, barely laid a hand on Eve except to restrain her, to protect herself.</p><p> </p><p>Eve'd been pretty proud of the stupid bravado she’d charged with, the punch she’d landed bulls-eye to Villanelle’s face and then an angry, impulsive forehead-to-eye-socket until she swore she’d heard a crack.</p><p> </p><p>She still had no idea why she did it.</p><p> </p><p>Boiling, seething anger at Villanelle’s calousness, her cocky smile, her lack of apology. Anger at herself, for being overpowered, for not thinking straight, for being hot-headed and impatient, for not planning or being prepared. And mostly, for instigating the kiss, for the way she’d felt after, pulsing with hunger and disgust.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle turns, smoothing her thumb over the fleshy part of her palm, right at the base, soothing her. The inside of her wrist buzzes where the fingers tickle.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think this is a healthy coping mechanism?”</p><p> </p><p>“Compared to - ? All the other things we’ve tried?”</p><p> </p><p>“You are right. I have answered my own question,” Villanelle says, nodding once. She touches the skin of Eve’s finger, along the thick, pale line where her rings used to be. She doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t need to.  </p><p> </p><p>Eve can read her like an open book. Except - </p><p> </p><p>“And you have very soft hands, like a baby. Nice to hold. You will show me the name of your moisturiser when we are back at the hotel, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Just like that, the tender moment’s over but Eve doesn’t care, not when Villanelle’s mouth quivers to stop from laughing, not when Villanelle nudges into her and doesn’t pull away, and definitely not when, almost an hour later, Villanelle puts her head on her shoulder without asking, clean and floral like it had been that angry day, which feels like a mere echo now, a trial-run to finally getting it right.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>@vracs1 on Twitter</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. York</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>🛀</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for splitting chapters into further halves. Writing's been hard at 4,000 a pop and I thought breaking things up might mean more regular weekly updates 😊 also I'm moving house next week so got a lot going on IRL.</p><p>Enjoy!</p><p>PS Back on Twitter for fic only @vracs1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>"I am going for a run, do you want to come with me?" </p><p> </p><p>Eve looks up from her spot on the bed where she'd been Skyping Carolyn. </p><p> </p><p>She'd been so zoned in, so intrigued by the bottomless circles under Carolyn's eyes, the gauntness of her, the uncharacteristic, grieving lackluster-ness, she'd barely taken in anything around her, let alone Villanelle changing or making plans.</p><p> </p><p>She's kitted out in grey leggings and a sports top, ponytail neat and high, face bare, trainers pink. </p><p> </p><p>The bruises are there but fading. </p><p> </p><p>Seeing Villanelle so athletic and bouncy reminds Eve how strong she is, how quickly she'll recover, how she really didn't need to worry about her as much as she had been. </p><p> </p><p>And yet.</p><p> </p><p>"You're hilarious."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rolls her eyes, lunging for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. </p><p> </p><p>She shakes the box, then slips it inside the calf pocket of her leggings.</p><p> </p><p>"So I don't die of passive smoke inhalation."</p><p> </p><p>"Controlling."</p><p> </p><p>"Caring," Villanelle warns through a genuine smile and makes Eve snort, because <em> fine</em>, it <em>was</em> caring, but she was an adult, making adult choices, and if she wanted to run her health into the ground, why couldn't she?  </p><p> </p><p>"I'm not coming."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grabs her iPhone and armband.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay," she says sweetly, popping her airpods in as she heads out. "Maybe when you are cold turkey, you will change your mind."</p><p> </p><p>Eve gets a playful wave and a wink before the door clicks shut and she's by herself.</p><p> </p><p>She folds her laptop closed.</p><p> </p><p>She liked being alone. </p><p> </p><p>Liked it more like this, when she didn't have to agonise over Villanelle being killed or doing bad things. Liked it best when there was the anticipation of absolutely nothing.  </p><p> </p><p>She stretches until her back pops, taking her phone through to the en-suite.</p><p> </p><p>The obvious choice was a soak- the hotel bath came with a selection of luxury goods: a ceramic bowl of smellies and bombs, hair mousses and skin peels, things she'd always pictured Villanelle indulging in, pampering herself with to maintain her radiant skin and soft hair, not that she'd been given a chance to see it in anything other than an up-do. </p><p> </p><p>For all the times Villanelle made comments about hers, begged her to wear it down, stared at it, she'd done nothing to show Eve the same courtesy. </p><p> </p><p>But she had time to work on that.</p><p> </p><p>All she needed to worry about right now was de-stressing and ordering room service once Villanelle got back. If she couldn't do the former through nicotine, she'd settle for the next best thing.</p><p> </p><p>She fills the bath and fills a cup of coffee, submerging herself as soon as the lavender bomb's stopped fizzing, soaking the entire space with its sleepy smell.</p><p> </p><p>She can't remember the last time she'd done this. </p><p> </p><p>After Rome? After Paris? </p><p> </p><p>Post-op, she'd stuck to showers so the stitches wouldn't drench, and post-Paris, the image of her hands under water had haunted her for months, nail-beds marred with Villanelle's blood, body trembling in the tepid water as her phone rang off the hook and drowned out Niko's worry.</p><p> </p><p>Now the water sighs and covers clean hands. </p><p> </p><p>The steam rises beautifully in lazy curls over her rippling fingers, floating above her legs and stomach. </p><p> </p><p>The lip feels cool against her scar and makes her moan as she adjusts.</p><p> </p><p>When she closes her eyes, she sees nothing but black, her brain still for the first time in forever, the air calm, soundless.</p><p> </p><p>She inhales, sliding down until her chin hits the water. Tiny floats of foam swim in and out of reach, speckled with lavender sprigs across the surface. </p><p> </p><p>She spies the tops of her knees, the rest of her in murky depths. Her skin feels smooth there, slick as her fingers glide across her stomach, the crest of a hip, the dip of her navel.</p><p> </p><p>She could move lower.</p><p> </p><p>She could touch herself. Just a little, just to remind herself what that felt like. </p><p> </p><p>She’d thought about it. </p><p> </p><p>She hadn't been touched in months, not by her own hand, certainly not by Niko who'd spent the better part of a year surfing between hospitals. </p><p> </p><p>It hadn't seemed right, to be with him on the wards and then spend her evenings home with her hand down her pants. </p><p> </p><p>But this wasn't her home. </p><p> </p><p>This wasn't even her life, not her old one, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>She lets her hands sink, the rhythm of her heartbeat quick and tight between her thighs, desperate for friction. </p><p> </p><p>The image of Villanelle flickers behind her lids. </p><p> </p><p>She's not surprised to find her there, the feel of her face in her hands still hot against her palm, the curve of her warm mouth, the twist of her scar and nape of her bruised neck. </p><p> </p><p>The mundane sounds of her hung-over grunts, her bratty whines, her sleepy moans gather to echo in her ears like a choir. </p><p> </p><p>She swallows hard, sighing as the pads of her fingers press in to leave her dizzy.</p><p> </p><p>"Eve?"</p><p> </p><p>The water freezes. The bath feels vacant, drained in a flash even as she shoots up to sit straight, sending waves out the sides.</p><p> </p><p>"Just a minute." </p><p> </p><p>Floats gather around her chest.</p><p> </p><p>She herds them to herself frantically just as Villanelle's head pops through the door.</p><p> </p><p>"What are you doing?"</p><p> </p><p>"Skydiving." </p><p> </p><p>Her voice doesn't sound like her own.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grins. She wipes sweat from her forehead and gestures to the spare towel on the rack. </p><p> </p><p>"Can I -?" </p><p> </p><p>She doesn't wait for an answer, grabbing the flannel to dry her face and neck, eyes curious as they take in Eve's set-up. They land on her face but no lower. </p><p> </p><p>Eve's both frustrated and flattered. </p><p> </p><p>There's an unspoken agreement for her to stay. </p><p> </p><p>Eve watches her take quick, greedy gulps from the tap then perch on the toilet beside the tub, still breathless, flushed from chest up.</p><p> </p><p>"I thought you found Islam? This is more like - Buddhist...crying. Meditation music. You can't be <em> both</em>, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve glances at her phone and her untouched coffee, both out of reach, forgetting to give a sarcastic response when Villanelle hands her the mug unprompted and turns her Spotify down so they can talk.</p><p> </p><p>"How was your run?"</p><p> </p><p>"Excellent."</p><p> </p><p>"Not long enough." </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's eyes flash mischievously. She sits up, like she's ready to play. </p><p> </p><p>"Did you miss me?"</p><p> </p><p>"No." </p><p> </p><p>The heavy ache still lingers in the pit of her stomach like a broken fever, throbbing and throbbing.</p><p> </p><p>"You are the worst liar." </p><p> </p><p>Eve pushes Konstantin away as soon as he appears. She sits up, knees hugged to her chest to protect her modesty. </p><p> </p><p>"Finally had a moment to hear myself think."</p><p> </p><p>"Yes," Villanelle nods sagely, reaching to take the mug from her hands. She stares down at it, sniffs and grunts. "You think very loudly. Like a propeller."</p><p> </p><p>"You do everything loudly."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's jaw drops.</p><p> </p><p>"Chew, snore. Exist."</p><p> </p><p>"I thought baths were something people did to relax," she says softly, carefully, and Eve knows to expect something, "but <em> nope</em>, you are very - <em>prickly</em>. You are <em> un </em>-relaxed," she gestures. “And, look - you are un-drowned." </p><p> </p><p>"Careful."</p><p> </p><p>She leans forward, legs apart, elbows on her knees. Her eyes finally lift to Eve's messy topknot, down to her mouth, up to her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>It makes Eve feel more naked than she’s felt in her entire life. </p><p> </p><p>She hugs herself tighter.</p><p> </p><p>“You look nice like this, by the way.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bare-assed?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Subtle.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can be subtle.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can you? Because -” Eve laughs, suddenly nervous, “- you’re staring at me. ”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes snap back up politely. She’s soft, bashful, behaved. </p><p> </p><p>Eve loves how that looks, how her mouth quirks in a half-smile and her head cocks to the side and she links her fingers together, then changes her mind and props her elbow against the sink, fist to her temple.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Krasivaya</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not fair.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Milaya</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums softly. </p><p> </p><p>To her, it was probably nice, being protected by a language Eve didn't understand but loved the sound of. </p><p> </p><p>To Eve, it felt incredibly intimate, no matter the meaning, no matter what thoughtful words Villanelle could ever say to her in English.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you calling me names?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you going to teach me Russian?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>She almost forgets, propping herself on her elbows indignantly, then launching back in the water, a puddle sent Villanelle’s way.</p><p> </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not romantic, if you know the meaning.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve glances to make sure she’s still safely hidden even though Villanelle's gaze holds steady. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you trying to be romantic with me?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle puts her bare foot on the toilet seat and rests her chin on her knee. The press of it makes her mouth pout. Her baby hairs curl with sweat and steam.</p><p> </p><p>“You have been taking me on very nice dates, I thought I would return the favour -”</p><p> </p><p>“Again - not dates.”</p><p> </p><p>“ - and then you are getting naked in front of me like this and -”</p><p> </p><p>“You walked in.”</p><p> </p><p>“You invited me in,” Villanelle whines.</p><p> </p><p>Eve folds her forearms on top of her knees, and slumps her cheek against them. </p><p> </p><p>She feels her breasts press against her thighs. Villanelle could probably see the faint outline of them from the side if she looked, which she doesn’t. Eve bets she could kick back, tuck her hands behind her head and Villanelle still wouldn’t look.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't try. She sighs, watching her breath clear the sheets of moisture. </p><p> </p><p>The bubbles start to melt, making space for heat to rise. She stretches for the tap over the mountains of her knees but Villanelle beats her to it, dipping her fingers to judge the temperature before topping her up.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>“You're welcome,” she says seriously, leaning back as she watches Eve’s hands swirl to gather warmth. </p><p> </p><p>The tap burbles and drips, filling the silence, hypnotic in a way that makes Eve feel sleepy and sluggish, the chronic ache in her joints easing, muscles loose. </p><p> </p><p>She knows she's being watched but her eyes are heavy and Villanelle’s attention feels like sunlight soaking right through her skin. She soaks it up.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you think about so much?”</p><p> </p><p>She makes a non-committal sound, listening to the rustle in Villanelle's movement. </p><p> </p><p>“You are always thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>When she opens her eyes, her lashes feel sticky and cool from the damp. She buries her face in the crook of her folded elbow to rub at them.</p><p> </p><p>“Niko. Real life. You.”</p><p> </p><p>“You say it like they are separate things. This is not real life?” Villanelle’s voice sounds closer, adjacent to her. </p><p> </p><p>She looks back up to find her kneeling beside the tub a few feet away.</p><p> </p><p>“It is. And it isn't.”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm real.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve nods. </p><p> </p><p>If she stretched her arm, she would touch Villanelle, the overwhelming presence of her, sturdy but malleable, welcoming, covered in sheens of sweat and running clothes.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle does it first. She scoots in, folding her legs beneath her so she can lean across the lip and poke Eve's wet shoulder, brief and platonic.</p><p> </p><p>“'See? You are real."</p><p> </p><p>"Sometimes it doesn't feel very real. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be dead.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rolls her eyes. She sits back on her heels. </p><p> </p><p>“Don't be so dramatic. You know I would let you have one of my nine lives but I think I have run out.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve smiles sadly. With her cheek to her knee, Villanelle's flipped ninety-degrees. It’s easier to look at her askew - it dilutes all of Villanelle’s tentative softness, holding it back from swallowing them whole.</p><p> </p><p>“I keep - picturing Kenny. His stupid little face.”</p><p> </p><p>“He was your friend,” Villanelle tries, sympathetic.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. He was,” she shrugs her eyebrows. Her chest feels both hollow and heavy, she could toss a pebble and it would ricochet. “And Hugo, fuck, I -” she shakes her head, remembering the stained red carpet and the way she’d let it drain him dry. “I left him on the fucking floor to bleed out. So I could run after you. Think I’d learn my lesson -”</p><p> </p><p>“What happened to him?”</p><p> </p><p>“Collateral.” </p><p> </p><p>It sounded cold and impersonal, to reduce him to that when she’d felt how very much alive he’d been a day before, hard against her thighs and so eager to please.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle studies her slowly, drumming her fingers against the sweating rim of the tub. </p><p> </p><p>“Alive?”</p><p> </p><p>“In the end. Just about.”</p><p> </p><p>“Also friend?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve groans. “Friend. Colleague. Pretty sure you're not meant to fuck your friends.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle laughs, crisp and dry, smacking her hands against her thighs. </p><p> </p><p>“Wow. You have a <em> really </em>bad track record. Maybe you shouldn’t make any more.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve flicks water, smiling when Villanelle dodges the splash, leaning to retaliate with a large handful.</p><p> </p><p>She shields her face, squirming until Villanelle stops and settles back down in her space on the floor, sober. </p><p> </p><p>"So. You had sex with him, huh."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. York</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Still in fucking York</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Favourite thing I've written to date - hope it holds up! 🙏💛</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle had lied when she’d said she didn’t get jealous. Eve could see it now, written all over her - fake disinterest and a sharp glint in her eye, hungry for information.</p><p> </p><p>“In Rome, yeah. <em> Once</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to justify yourself to me, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>She <em> tsks</em>, leaning against the edge. Like this, Villanelle is hardly a breath away, pretty and jaded. She reaches for her, wet fingertips pushing fly-aways behind her ear to placate her.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure?” she teases.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s your body. You can do with it what you like.”</p><p> </p><p>Except Villanelle cares, of course she does, jealousy hidden behind her unimpressed mouth, the hazel of her irises. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t exactly feel great about the whole thing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bad sex?” Villanelle snaps, full of contempt.</p><p> </p><p>“Actually - no,” she shifts and that throb is back, coarse, languid. </p><p> </p><p>“Good for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle -”</p><p> </p><p>“No, good sex is important. You should - be having good sex, the best,” she hurries, voice rough as she moves to stand from the floor. </p><p> </p><p>Eve snags her.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay don’t get so defensive. It meant nothing, he was just - a distraction. A horny distraction, who happened to be around when - I needed that.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle frowns at her. “Is that what you do - cheat on your husband with your colleagues when you feel kinky?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” she says slowly, stung, praying-hoping-wishing Villanelle would just read her. </p><p> </p><p>“What, then?”</p><p> </p><p>She smooths her hair back and readjusts her bun. Her knees and tailbone creak from her awkward seat. </p><p> </p><p>“You were in my ear, Villanelle, I hadn’t - you were so - and your voice -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shifts, face changing from night to day with realisation, eyes big. </p><p> </p><p>Eve stares at the leaky faucet.</p><p> </p><p>“God, it sounds like I’m making excuses for having an affair - I’m not - but - you sounded like you were <em> right </em> there, with me, telling me things no one else could hear, it was - <em> intimate</em>. It made me feel -” </p><p> </p><p>Hot. Wet. Starved. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle seeks out her gaze, head tipped.</p><p> </p><p>They meet. </p><p> </p><p>Eve burns, melts when she sees Villanelle’s parted mouth, her dark, blown pupils, the smudge in her cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>“I know what you sound like when you come for fuck’s sake,” she says barely above a whisper. “I know how you moan, it’s -” her throat swells with humiliation.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle lets out a stifled little sound, a fraction of the ones she'd made that night. </p><p> </p><p>It wakes every single nerve inside her.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t remember the last time I felt that good. The last time I -”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>She runs her fingers across her face. “I know. <em> Jesus </em> - sorry. You just - looked so upset and -”</p><p> </p><p>“I want to see it.”</p><p> </p><p>Her hand drops. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pushes up on her knees. Her eyes are glazed, shiny, brimming with something that's both arousal and remorse.</p><p> </p><p>“I want to see it,” she says breathlessly, “I don’t think I can wait anymore. I want you to show it to me, okay? Please.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve realises what Villanelle’s referring to when she spots her gaze climbing across her collarbones and shoulder to the place hidden by ceramic.</p><p> </p><p>Her heart pounds.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Okay,” she says hoarsely, shimmying down the tub to leave her back exposed.</p><p> </p><p>She bows her forehead to her knees, closing her eyes so she doesn’t have to see Villanelle analyse her. She focuses on the fast breath bouncing off her thighs and the amplified sound and sensation of Villanelle behind her.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a moment where nothing happens, where Villanelle’s hesitance is so palpable, Eve almost tastes it. Should she say something else? Move into her touch first?</p><p> </p><p>Just as she might, a palm presses, flat, reverent against her scar, engulfing it, Villanelle’s breath light against the back of her neck. </p><p> </p><p>She tries not to shake.</p><p> </p><p>The palm turns to fingertips and the fingertips turn to shapeless patterns, up and down the seam, careful not to startle her.</p><p> </p><p>It’s the first time she’s felt anything other than pain there. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s careful, slow, her touch travelling wider and wider until she’s stroking along Eve’s spine, the traverse of her shoulder blade, the back of her hairline.</p><p> </p><p>She pictures Villanelle's lips there instead, mouth open, hovering against her damp skin. </p><p> </p><p>“If -”</p><p> </p><p>Over her shoulder, she finds Villanelle’s eyes wet, worshipful. </p><p> </p><p>“If I kissed you here -” Villanelle’s throat twitches.</p><p> </p><p>Eve holds herself tight. </p><p> </p><p>“- maybe it would hurt less.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> So kiss me, get it over and done with. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Except she wouldn’t dare rush this, not the way Villanelle stares at her, not the way her eyes flit from her face to her shoulder to the rest of her beneath the water like an island she's dying to reach. </p><p> </p><p>“Might hurt more,” she mumbles.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle traces her scar one last time for good measure but doesn’t follow through on her word, frowning slightly as she reaches for the soap and bath pouf. </p><p> </p><p>Eve gives in. </p><p> </p><p>Never had she pictured being bathed by someone, least of all like this, by Villanelle, who up until recently she hadn’t thought capable of anything other than harm.</p><p> </p><p>Turns out Villanelle was capable of so much, taking and giving - Eve had been given more things in the past fortnight than in the last decade. </p><p> </p><p>She feels Villanelle’s hands scoop water to run down her back repeatedly.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t watch, the thick lather sliding off Villanelle’s fingers and melting into her skin. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rubs her there, first with the balls of her hands and then fingertips, gravitating to her knots and lower back just beneath the water. </p><p> </p><p>She lets herself unwind completely. </p><p> </p><p>The repetitive circles and swirls leave her drowsy and vaguely aroused, her previous want turned down to a simmer under Villanelle’s affectionate hands. </p><p> </p><p>They try to be clinical but attentive, keeping to the safe zones of her body even though they stray to her arms, admiring the muscle there, the ridges of her ribs that make her wriggle.</p><p> </p><p>“You carry your stress in your shoulders.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know. I need a spa day. Jamie promised.”</p><p> </p><p>“This is a spa day.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stretches a little to straighten her back. She laughs when Villanelle cranes to look at her with a playful, innocent smile.</p><p> </p><p>“For me. What do you get out of it?”</p><p> </p><p>“I get to -” Villanelle shrugs, “- spend time with you. Return the favour.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ve spent every waking hour together.”</p><p> </p><p>“You took care of me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t <em> bathe </em>you.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle jostles the water, rubbing a lavender sprig between her fingers. “I could jump in.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve gives her a warning look.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m kidding,” she grins, going back to work over her shoulders and the sides of her neck. </p><p> </p><p>She feels Villanelle’s fingers curl around her, tugging to unfold her from her tight, little ball.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you -”</p><p> </p><p>“Lean back. I’m going to do your hair.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m naked.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” Villanelle chuckles, “I won’t look.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s what you said last time.”</p><p> </p><p>When she’d stood dripping in her kitchen and felt Villanelle’s dangerous eyes consume her without consent. </p><p> </p><p>Now she uncurls and slips as fully beneath the water as she can, leaving only her head and neck on show.</p><p> </p><p>She cranes to see Villanelle above her upside-down, smiling. </p><p> </p><p>It makes her feel awkward, wondering how Villanelle sees her in that moment - if she sees all her wrinkles, the parts of her that could be smoother, younger.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sits back and reaches for her hair tie. Her eyes don’t leave her face, tethered to her mouth, nose, cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>“Is this okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve nods quietly. Her hair comes loose, falling down the side of the tub through Villanelle’s curious fingers.</p><p> </p><p>They scratch at her scalp, graze the corners of her temples and earlobes to work out the kinks.</p><p> </p><p>“Beautiful.”</p><p> </p><p>She squirms.</p><p> </p><p>“You have the most perfect hair I have ever seen on any woman.” </p><p> </p><p>She tips her chin back further, secretly pleased, even if a strong, irrational part of her worries Villanelle will find her greys, her split ends, a tangle.</p><p> </p><p>But Villanelle only tells her how nice she looks when she’s this relaxed, how perfect her skin is, how much she likes being here with her. </p><p> </p><p>Little by little, each comment chips away at her frazzled nerves until all she feels is soothed and a little melancholy.</p><p> </p><p>“Move down a bit,” Villanelle cradles the back of her head.</p><p> </p><p>The water's cold when it jostles but Eve doesn’t care. She feels her throat spasm when Villanelle guides her back into the bubbles, careful to keep her forehead and face dry.</p><p> </p><p>The way she does it is indescribably tender, patient.</p><p> </p><p>It makes Eve picture Villanelle young, with her family, with Konstantin, and then without them, all alone, the two of them now. </p><p> </p><p>It surprises her, again, how seldom Villanelle probably received affection growing up, how many <em> things </em>she’d come to possess, but never true care or safety. </p><p> </p><p>And it reminded her, in one huge, overwhelming wave, of all the places Villanelle had taken her, the food she’d made her, the stories she’d told her, the sweet words and gestures.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle knew how to be cruel, but Eve would never get enough of this sort of kindness.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes begin to sting. She sniffs quickly.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s already started applying shampoo, kneading the base of her skull and then more lightly behind her ears. </p><p> </p><p>“You can sit up now."</p><p> </p><p>She does. She scrambles to sit, feeling her ribs start to quake against her thighs as she tries to hold back whatever’s threatening to bubble out.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>She manages a strangled <em> yes</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle unhooks the showerhead to rinse her hair the best way she can from the weird angle, shielding her eyes for her and teasing out the ends.</p><p> </p><p>Water still steals past her fingers and down Eve's cheeks. Her eyes swell and throb and the tears brim over, down her temples and into her hairline, silent but fast.</p><p> </p><p>She stifles her sob with her hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle scoots around the side. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks blurry, concerned.</p><p> </p><p>“Having a crisis,” she cries and how good it felt to finally cry for no reason at all, at the worst opportune moment. She tries to wipe her face but Villanelle gets there first.</p><p> </p><p>“Did I hurt you?”</p><p> </p><p>The laugh lodges itself right between another sob and a hiccup. Villanelle pinches her chin.</p><p> </p><p>“No. Yes. So much!” Then, adamantly, “<em>No</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle leans forward on her haunches, barely a foot away. “I wanted to - do something nice for you. I’m not very good at this.”</p><p> </p><p>“That's not -”</p><p> </p><p>“Baking cakes, washing hair - I am really fucking it up.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” she rubs her eyes, "you're not, I just -”</p><p> </p><p>“I wanted to apologise. I thought maybe I would do it without words - I am also not very good at those, but, you are already crying, so,” Villanelle readjusts into a kneel, folding her forearms across the ceramic lip.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s entire face burns. </p><p> </p><p>She feels like a kid, butt naked with her knees under her chin. </p><p> </p><p>Her eyes sting from the shampoo and the salt, throat prickling. She takes a shaky swallow, blinking to see Villanelle better.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve. I need you to hear this,” Villanelle says, voice deep and serious. “I am really, really sorry, a <em> lot</em>. For a lot of things. For your friends, all of them. They sounded - nice - <em> strange </em> - nice,” she shakes her head. “I’m sorry for Bill -”</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s breath stops.</p><p> </p><p>“- I think about him all of the time. I regret it every day, how it makes you feel. How <em> I </em> made you feel. I can’t take it back. I wish I could. I want to. I understand - when you love somebody like that and - they slip right through your hands. It’s so - <em> lonely</em>,” she says and her eyes shine, mouth trembling. “I will never forgive myself, it was a big mistake, the biggest. Very big.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very big.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very,” she whispers. “And I’m sorry about Niko, about Dasha, she was - a big shit. You know I would never - not that. I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle clears her throat. “He really loved you, Eve. I know it’s not what you want to hear right now, I know it won't help but - he loved you more than anything. He told me. And he had that stupid moustache and the farmboy clothes -” she scrunches her nose but she’s close to crying, Eve can tell, “- but he loved you. Gemma was nothing. Of course he loved you. You are so easy to love and I am so sorry for fucking it up.”</p><p> </p><p>Her face is finally dry. She pushes the back of her hand against her nose and drops her other down on top of Villanelle’s wrists.</p><p> </p><p>“I think I fucked it up all by myself.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle gives her a half-hearted smile. She’s still teetering on the edge of tears, beaded in the corners of her eyes. Eve thought seeing them fall would be the only consolation, but this is enough. She squeezes gently.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle squeezes back, reaching to push away the wet hair slicked to the side of her neck. She looks tired and content, drained from the outpour. </p><p> </p><p>Eve wants to hold her.</p><p> </p><p>“You know,” she whispers, “sometimes when you’re just - doing stuff like this, everyday stuff - making breakfast or showering or just - <em> being </em> -"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle fidgets.</p><p> </p><p>" - you don’t look like Villanelle.”</p><p> </p><p>“Who do I look like?” she says, eyeing her up.</p><p> </p><p>Eve sighs. Licks the water from her lips.</p><p> </p><p>“Like Oksana.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s gaze darkens. “You don’t know Oksana.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re right, I don't,” she nods. </p><p> </p><p>She runs her thumb over the bones of Villanelle’s wrist, slipping her hand under so their fingers fold. </p><p> </p><p>“But I know she’d never hurt me. And she's a real <em> asshole</em>. Full of shit. Intelligent. Hilarious,<em> on occasion</em>. I know she cares. She loves. She feels things. And she’s really not so different to you.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's fingers twitch in her own.</p><p> </p><p>"Yes. I am hilarious," she rasps, coquettish and smug, but Eve doesn't miss the way she turns her head away, wiping the side of her face into her arm and blinking wetly up to the ceiling before landing a final, wobbly smile back down at her.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Twitter @vracs1</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Lakes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>NSFW</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Part 2 soon 🍑</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>She stares at the condensation on the glass.</p><p> </p><p>The sun makes it glitter. Tiny, speckled diamonds lighting up the van.</p><p> </p><p>She tries to keep her breath steady, deep, like she might still be sleeping. The fingers in her hair continue to stroke undisturbed.</p><p> </p><p>She likes the barely-there feel of them playing at her nape. The way Villanelle lies curled behind her, warm. The way they hardly touch, careful, nestled in the covers.</p><p> </p><p>They’re too heavy now, wrapped around the flannel of her pyjamas and bunched beneath her chest. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle had insisted on blankets, cushions, sheets upon sheets to create their own private, portable haven.</p><p> </p><p>She rubs her cheek into the pillow and sighs.</p><p> </p><p>The fingers stop.</p><p> </p><p>She tries to be still again, to coax them back, but Villanelle’s onto her. The bed dips as she rolls away. </p><p> </p><p>Eve follows, turning onto her back slowly. The sheets slip down to let her body breathe, to stretch, to sleepily inhale. </p><p> </p><p>The van smells like pine and clean laundry. She never wants to leave.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes open.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a soft noise beside her. She looks drunk-tired and guilty, behaved hands balled into fists beneath her chin. She’s staring. Smiling. The skin at her temples shines dewy with sleep-sweat.</p><p> </p><p>Eve turns on her side so they share the same air.</p><p> </p><p>“Morning.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums.</p><p> </p><p>“Sleep okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” she croaks. She’s lying - the bags under her eyes tell Eve so.</p><p> </p><p>Eve reaches for her, for the soft curve of her cheek which turns into her palm, the way it always did. She watches Villanelle’s eyes droop.</p><p> </p><p>“You were moving a lot.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not a criticism,” she whispers. She stretches her fingers into Villanelle’s hairline, caressing her there. “Just - concern,” she says, tracing the shell of her ear, the tiny stud embedded in the fleshy part. When she moves along the angle of her jaw, Villanelle cranes to get more, lashes stubborn.</p><p> </p><p>“I will fall asleep again.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs. “That’s okay.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s face crumples into a frown. “No.”</p><p> </p><p>“No?”</p><p> </p><p>She’s more alert now, blinking to wake herself up. </p><p> </p><p>Eve lets her hand fall away to give her a fighting chance. She scoots their feet together, amused to find Villanelle still in socks.</p><p> </p><p>“Cold?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle groans, wriggling her toes against Eve’s ankle, up her calf absentmindedly and back down the arch of her heel.</p><p> </p><p>“So hot, maybe I will die.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve makes a face. “Theatrical from -” she glances to her wristwatch, “six in the morning. Must be some kind of record, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“I am always theatrical, Eve. Why did you wake me?”</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t point out who woke who, grinning. “Sun’s up.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is illegal to be awake this early.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s illegal to be this scorching in a moving vehicle.”</p><p> </p><p>“We are not moving. Open a window.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve grunts, kicking the sheets off completely. She could’ve picked better sleepwear - she’s got a tattered college tee on and reindeer bottoms she deeply regrets packing.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle gives them a stifled smirk, then makes a huge, dramatic deal of having to sit up and stretch for the back doors, heaving them open to let in the crisp, morning air and flood every corner of the van in sunshine. </p><p> </p><p>“Nice view.”</p><p> </p><p>She props herself on an elbow to look.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a perfect frame - luscious Yorkshire moors painted in heather and wildflowers, the glimmering lake ahead, blue, cloudless sky mirrored in its surface.</p><p> </p><p>She’s pretty sure they weren’t actually allowed to be here, parked in an undesignated area with no camping permission, miles and miles off the beaten track, miles and miles from their intended route.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t care.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle glows in the early light, hair like a halo, eyes like the forest behind her. She’s beautiful. </p><p> </p><p>Eve lets herself look and acknowledge it in all its glory, every freckle she’d already memorised, every cut and bruise that’s no longer there.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. It is. Come here.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle drops back into bed, on top of the covers but closer, so she can enjoy the landscape from the same angle. </p><p> </p><p>Their elbows kiss. Eve finds her hand amongst the blankets.</p><p> </p><p>Birdsong breaks the silence. The trees rustle.</p><p> </p><p>It’s gloriously quiet.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle breathes in and out, shallow, measured breaths, fingers lax and tangled with Eve's own. Her legs are bare, longer than Eve's as they span the length of the make-shift bed. Her eyes stay fixed on the hills. Her teeth slide up and down across her lip where the cut used to be, now only a thin, pale line. </p><p> </p><p>Eve tugs at her chin.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>She stops. She licks her mouth and turns to Eve, nerves hidden in the twitch of her brow, the twitch of her jaw. </p><p> </p><p>Eve knew all her tells by now.</p><p> </p><p>“Come here.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods politely, shrugging. “I am.”</p><p> </p><p>She can’t help but smile. It feels like her mouth wobbles with the force of her heartbeat, slamming in her chest, in her belly, so hard and quick it drums all the air right out of her.</p><p> </p><p>She lets go of Villanelle’s hand and shifts into a half-sit, propping her pillow against the window.</p><p> </p><p>“Come here,” she says again with more intent and her voice gives out, swallowed by desire, by how Villanelle looks at her then, surprised, curious, unsure. “Villanelle.”</p><p> </p><p>For a second, she thinks she’s read the whole thing wrong. </p><p> </p><p>For a second, she floods with fear, with the need to laugh hysterically, to scramble for her clothes and hit the nearest road.</p><p> </p><p>And then the second-guessing falls by the wayside because Villanelle turns to her, twisting to prop her head in her hand, to hover above her, not touching, not moving.</p><p> </p><p>Eve cups her face.</p><p> </p><p>“Take your hair down.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hiccups. </p><p> </p><p>“Take it down.”</p><p> </p><p>“I think that's my line.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m just borrowing it,” she strokes the corner of Villanelle’s mouth, touching her where she’d been hurt and using her other hand to reach for the end of her braid. </p><p> </p><p>She slips the hair tie off, loosening the strands until they fall down Villanelle’s shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>Finally.</p><p> </p><p>Her hair’s longer than Eve imagined, thicker, straighter. The braid’s left it in lazy waves. She takes a greedy handful and urges her closer.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve -” Villanelle sighs. Her chest heaves like it had on the bus. Her eyes can’t settle.</p><p> </p><p>Eve shifts further beneath her, tugging her on top, one hand at the back of her head and the other keeping her face unobscured. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s weight lingers above her, tentative. </p><p> </p><p>She presses up to feel its fullness, the pillowy curves of her body, her chest, her waist bracketed and brought down by her thighs.</p><p> </p><p>She thumbs Villanelle's chin and kisses her, gasping when their mouths meet, familiar but different to before, happy, sweet, short.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pulls back. The look on her face makes Eve feel it all again: want and tenderness and fear and desperation.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay,” she leans up, searching, “it’s okay, I promise,” and her hand tightens in Villanelle’s hair and they’re kissing again, kissing and kissing until Eve thinks maybe Villanelle invented it, maybe it never existed before her, not really, not like this, not this perfectly, her lips landing in quick succession, light, excited kisses Eve tries to still and capture.</p><p> </p><p>She lifts her hips and feels a jolt.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shivers into her. Gulps.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you - want to be naked?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Eve laughs into another kiss. Her whole body thrums. “I really do,” she says hoarsely as her hands move down Villanelle’s body, pulling at whatever they can find - shirt, shorts, underwear - sneaking their way under and onto the warm expanse of Villanelle’s back, her sides, her waist.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s moaning, tiny, hurried sounds that pool between Eve’s legs and make her hurt.</p><p> </p><p>She trails the blunt edge of her nails down the notches of Villanelle’s spine just to make her feel the same, to see her arch, cat-like, nosing into the crook of her neck where she starts to leave wet, breathless kisses beaded down her throat.</p><p> </p><p>Niko never kissed her like that. Never made her feel so beside herself, dizzy and disoriented to anything but heat and scent.</p><p> </p><p>She opens her eyes, cradling the crown of Villanelle’s head as it descends across the cotton of her shirt, more kisses to her breastbone and stomach.</p><p> </p><p>The shirt folds, rolled up by Villanelle’s clever fingers. The breeze feels cool against her sweaty skin. Villanelle’s mouth burns.</p><p> </p><p>She sits up to watch.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes lift, reverent between her breasts. Her nipples ache.</p><p> </p><p>She reaches down past Villanelle’s shoulder blades, gathering the silk to bring it over her head in an awkward tug.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s chin snags. </p><p> </p><p>There’s push-and-pull. </p><p> </p><p>Laughter. </p><p> </p><p>The shirt’s lost to the covers and Eve reacquaints herself with Villanelle’s arms, tracing across them affectionately.</p><p> </p><p>“Up here.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not finished.”</p><p> </p><p>She cups Villanelle's jaw, guiding her back up. </p><p> </p><p>“Stay here,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around her to keep her close, the press of her breasts welcome, hair tickling against her cheek and neck.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pecks her lips. Kisses her chastely and then deep, tongue against her teeth and the roof of her mouth until she’s rocking to the rhythm of it, searching blindly for purchase in Villanelle’s hands pinning her own to the bed but not too rough, not too hard, never hard.</p><p> </p><p>“Touch me.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s grip loosens.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Villanelle</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve rolls her eyes. She smooths the crease between Villanelle’s brows and reaches for the waistband of her yellow, floral shorts. </p><p> </p><p>“Take these off.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle softens into a surprised smile. “You are bossy in bed.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m impatient.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” she chuckles, sitting up to rid herself of her clothes and socks. “You are.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares at the nude expanse of her, every part bared for her viewing pleasure only, confident, unwavering. It’s indescribably sexy, the way Villanelle treats her nakedness as nothing more than a state of being.</p><p> </p><p>She knows she’s practically perfect - Eve had spent enough time with her to realise her arrogance stretched from her brain all the way to her physical beauty, her face, her athleticism.</p><p> </p><p>There’s none of that showy-ness now, just a relaxed, casual charm about her Eve wants to bask in for hours.</p><p> </p><p>She sits up and takes her wrist.</p><p> </p><p>“Let me see you.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle crawls to her. There’s a glint in her eye and something docile, more obedient.</p><p> </p><p>She’s faultless all over, smooth where Eve’s used to foliage, soft where she expects edges. </p><p> </p><p>What she likes best is being able to hold her like this, safe inside her lap. She brushes hair from Villanelle’s shoulders and kisses her collar bone, the underside of her jaw.</p><p> </p><p>Liquid heat radiates and swells where they touch.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s throat ripples when she kisses it.</p><p> </p><p>She kisses lower, putting her hands on Villanelle’s back to lean her away.</p><p> </p><p>She rakes her eyes over Villanelle’s breasts, laughing when Villanelle gloats.</p><p> </p><p>“You like them?”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re fine,” she shrugs, snorting when Villanelle shoves her playfully. She takes a handful, squeezing to prove a point, squeezing the other for comparison too, soft and weighty in her hands, pebbled in her palms. She puts her mouth there, moaning the instant Villanelle reacts, grinding down into her, fisting her hair to push her closer, more.</p><p> </p><p>She grabs Villanelle’s ass.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grinds harder.</p><p> </p><p>Her mouth releases with a pop.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Eve.</em>” </p><p> </p><p>She was so close. Villanelle had barely touched her and she could come from thought alone, the image of Villanelle moaning in her lap, head thrown back, tits in her face.</p><p> </p><p>She reins in her breath and dips her head.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle slows. Sighs. Checks on her with worried eyes and a hand to her face.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” she says quietly.</p><p> </p><p>The scar looks up at her from the sliver of space between them. It sits, short and tidy above Villanelle’s belly button, so unlike its violent beginnings, its gaping, bleeding crevasse that leaked all over Eve’s fumbling hands.</p><p> </p><p>She traces it.</p><p> </p><p>Traces it again when Villanelle clenches.</p><p> </p><p>“Tickles.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve gawks. That guilt surges up, threatening to spill all over her arousal and into sadness. She stares at the scar, up at Villanelle’s calm gaze, back down at it.</p><p> </p><p>The skin around it is pale. Perfect. The line is straight. Not like hers, mangled in all directions.</p><p> </p><p>Still, she wishes it didn’t exist at all.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Stop worrying,” Villanelle nudges her chin up, clasping her jaw to part her lips a little, “I told you, I like it,” she husks and licks into her mouth, breaking the kiss only to strip her off her shirt and lay her back on the pillow.</p><p> </p><p>She gets no time to feel self-conscious, not between whatever soft thing Villanelle whispers to her in Russian and the graze of her teeth against her jugular, her nipples, the crest of her hip.</p><p> </p><p>A tongue dips into her navel. </p><p> </p><p>She throbs.</p><p> </p><p>Hands glide up her body to hold her. She covers them with her own, squeezing against her breasts.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sucks a string of kisses along the waist of her pyjama bottoms. </p><p> </p><p>Between her legs, the material sticks uncomfortably, drenched. She lifts her hips into Villanelle’s chest, desperate for relief, grateful when the bottoms come off to make space for the wind, cool against her slick skin, and Villanelle’s breath, ghosting across her.</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you ready?” Villanelle looks up from between her thighs like she belongs there, hair tossed to one side, cheeks pink.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>@vracs1 on Twitter, come say hi!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Lakes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>NSFW</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Pure dirt</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>Eve whines. She wants a photo of this, something permanently etched into her memory, a tattoo, a drawing, the possibility of doing it again and again. </p><p> </p><p>It might just kill her.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to take care of you,” Villanelle promises, nuzzling her cheek there.</p><p> </p><p>She’d heard it time and time again but now it’s real, rolled up in intimacy and hunger and Villanelle’s hands, holding her in.</p><p> </p><p><em> I know </em> sticks in her throat, robbed by Villanelle’s mouth lowering to cover her.</p><p> </p><p>She can see how wet she is in the shine of Villanelle’s lips and fingers as they spread her open easily, licking between her folds and then inside where she fights not to tighten, not to come when Villanelle fills her slowly, one, two, no stretch, no sting, just give, and pleasure coursing up through her stomach to blossom in her lungs.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums in agreement. Curls her fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>Sweat pricks down her back.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle starts to thrust in time with her firm licks, languid but not teasing, the sound of her fingers and mouth obscene in the stillness of the van, drowned by stifled, splintered sounds Eve’s never heard herself make.</p><p> </p><p>She anchors herself to the comfort of Villanelle’s name, saying it until it’s just fragments, just <em> Vil </em> and <em> don’t stop </em> and <em> please </em> and <em> Villanelle, Villanelle, Villanelle</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The covers ball in her hands. Her hips buck in Villanelle’s arms.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle holds her down and thrusts harder, quicker, latching onto her clit so the pressure builds at lightning speed, burbling and growing until it’s bigger than her, until she starts to buckle beneath its weight, hot, restless in Villanelle’s mouth.</p><p> </p><p>The orgasm rips and soars before she can catch it. It bolts through her, pit of her belly to the tips of her toes to leave her shaking and boneless, wired, pulse straining to pump blood back to her head. Her body spasms. Her toes uncurl. Her fists relax.</p><p> </p><p>In the dazed, bleary aftermath, she vaguely registers Villanelle scattering kisses, one to the inside of her knee, another to the curve of her ankle, another in the notches of her ribs so when they finally come face to face, Eve sees hardly any trace of herself on Villanelle’s swollen lips, berry-red and tasting of her.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks at her with so much glee, she throws an arm over her eyes not to have to see it.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>She groans. Villanelle laughs, pulling at her.</p><p> </p><p>“Was it good for you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh God.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs her eyebrows, nodding to herself. “Still got it,” she says in her low, pleased voice.</p><p> </p><p>Eve pinches her. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Ow </em>,” she dodges, and then - “You want to be kinky with me?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve smirks, scraping her hair back but not replying, arm slung around Villanelle’s waist, legs tangled. She lets her stroke patterns into her breastbone, into the dip at the base of her throat where her collarbones meet, where it tingles.  </p><p> </p><p>"You sound pretty when you come,” Villanelle says, pecking her there.</p><p> </p><p>"Prettier than you?"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grins, chin propped on her chest, hair spilled. "Hmm. Smooth talker. I taught you well."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s warm beside her, relaxed, silly. She slots right in, hip to hip, leg between thighs, palm to her back. She’s wet, Eve realises when she shifts and they press flush to each other. </p><p> </p><p>She’s soaking but she doesn’t say, doesn’t make a move beyond touching Eve innocently, mouth, cheeks, ears, hair. </p><p> </p><p>Eve pulls her closer. "I want to hear you in real life."</p><p> </p><p>She gets a small, confused <em> what?. </em></p><p> </p><p>"Like I did in Rome, except - now. I want to make you feel good now."</p><p> </p><p>"You do."</p><p> </p><p>"I haven't - ever - not really - technically, with another woman, but -"</p><p> </p><p>"Eve."</p><p> </p><p>"- how hard can it be, right? I touch myself all the time -"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle laughs.</p><p> </p><p>"Not <em> all </em> the time, <em> obviously</em>, I -"</p><p> </p><p>"Hey."</p><p> </p><p>She squirms. "I'm not nervous, it's not that - I'm an adult and - it’s <em> you</em>, I just - that was -" she gestures between them.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyebrows fly up suggestively. </p><p> </p><p>"Sensational?"</p><p> </p><p>She smiles, sheepish. "Yeah."</p><p> </p><p>"I know."</p><p> </p><p>"A <em> lot </em>to live up to."</p><p> </p><p>"So maybe not today," Villanelle tries, shifting to move away a little, to give her space. </p><p> </p><p>It has the opposite effect.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh - today," she nods, leg hooking to Villanelle’s waist, "right now, actually. Here. In this crappy van. I want to have a go."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle blinks at her. </p><p> </p><p>She has no idea what the hell she’s doing but she’s going to make it happen. She’s a fast study.</p><p> </p><p>She cups Villanelle’s face and pulls her in, losing herself in the things she knows - Villanelle’s mouth and the way she kisses, passionate but uncharacteristically restrained; the sweep of her tongue thorough and inviting; the feel of her, strong, womanly, pliable everywhere Eve’s fingers sink to hold her, to adjust her the way she needs.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s hips nudge into her own. </p><p> </p><p>That could work.</p><p> </p><p>Eve grabs her waist, mimicking the motion agonisingly slowly, back and forth a few times until Villanelle’s breathless and crimson, smeared across her thigh.</p><p> </p><p>“I want to touch you.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stills. </p><p> </p><p>“I want to touch you,” she rushes out, pushing up to sit, maneuvering them so Villanelle perches on her. </p><p> </p><p>It’s an awkward angle but Villanelle in her arms makes up for it, clinging to her neck, staring down at her with glazed, dark eyes.</p><p> </p><p>She smooths her hands up and over her back.</p><p> </p><p>The sweat there cools and Villanelle shivers, forehead thudding down against her own.</p><p> </p><p>Eve sneaks a kiss, one to her cheek and another to the side of her neck where she’d been choked, where it used to be purples and blues, and now only her mouth and Villanelle’s sturdy, racing heart quickening to the press of her tongue.</p><p> </p><p>She turns to kiss Villanelle’s arm, her other scar within reach now that there were two elbows tucked against her shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>She kisses over and over, feather-light but insistent, checking Villanelle’s face for signs of pleasure turning to pain, but it doesn’t come, only Villanelle’s quivering chin and mossy eyes, blinking and blinking until she’s being kissed properly again. </p><p> </p><p>She could spend hours kissing. She’d spent so long not doing this, she wanted to indulge, to stay on the receiving end of Villanelle’s mouth until one of them passed out.</p><p> </p><p>But Villanelle moves to remind her quietly and she’s suddenly buzzing with anticipation, with inadequacy, with an uninhibited need to peel the last layer.</p><p> </p><p>She slips her hand between them. Watches Villanelle’s breath catch. Watches it rattle out when she slides knuckles against her incision. Watches and marvels when her fingers find pale thigh and then heat, and then Villanelle’s whole body curling into her once she’s inside unmoving. </p><p> </p><p>She listens to the back doors rattle, to the hoarse rasp in Villanelle’s sigh, the hitch in her own.</p><p> </p><p>“Look at me.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle does. Eve wants to see her when she moves, when palm connects to pubic bone, fingers clasped in the softest, roughest part of her.</p><p> </p><p>She pushes.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle arches into her.</p><p> </p><p>She does it again.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grasps her hair, tugging at the base of her skull, the sting harsh and brief.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you like this?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle swallows. “It’s fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs at the call-back, framing her torso with her free hand. Her wrist creaks. She doesn’t care. She rubs that spot she always liked so much on herself, a mirror image of her own, hooking her fingers to bring Villanelle closer.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“Move.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m -”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Eve shushes, kissing her, pressing against the small of her back to guide her. “Move.” </p><p> </p><p>She couldn’t believe it. Villanelle was already so tight, pulsing against her fingers, sloppy against her neck with her lovely, muffled noises and panting mouth.</p><p> </p><p>She strokes her hair. The sun falls in it, lighting it in cascades of technicolour, silhouetting the muscles of her spine as she thrusts out of rhythm.</p><p> </p><p>She’s holding back. </p><p> </p><p>“I want to look at you. Look at me.” </p><p> </p><p>A whine. A cheek pressed against her temple.</p><p> </p><p>“Oksana,” she says sharply and feels Villanelle clench. Her chest squeezes.</p><p> </p><p>“Please, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>She kisses her throat in the spot where the sounds catch. “Oksana,” she mumbles, “Oksana,” and Villanelle’s turning into her, mewling into her mouth, she can hardly bring herself to look and then to look away when those green, glistening eyes fix on her, frightened almost, tearful, wide.</p><p> </p><p>She touches her mouth. Feels the sharp edge of Villanelle’s teeth. Feels the round of her cheek burn in her palm. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shuts her eyes and digs her knees into the sheets, pulling her in deeper.</p><p> </p><p>Her breathing turns.</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares and stares, speechless as she watches pleasure coil tight in Villanelle’s jaw, her stomach, her thighs, like a firework waiting to burst.</p><p> </p><p>She wants to kiss her, to see what she tastes like just before, to feel the hot air rush out of her in one fell swoop.</p><p> </p><p>She’s never felt so greedy.</p><p> </p><p>Never wanted to experience someone so fully, all to herself.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle braces herself on her shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>Shuts her eyes tight.</p><p> </p><p>And starts to tremble, sobbing right into her, splitting apart in golds and greens and rosepetal-pinks, flushed where Eve’s mouth had touched and pressed her for more.</p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t dare move. Not with something so delicate and so powerful in her hands.</p><p> </p><p>She feels pure awe. </p><p> </p><p>She’d caused this. This raw, fractured version of Villanelle, waiting to recover piece by piece.</p><p> </p><p>She holds her breath until Villanelle calms, until she’s spent and shapeless, slumped into her, gasping.</p><p> </p><p>They disconnect.</p><p> </p><p>The aftershocks follow.</p><p> </p><p>Eve's toes start to numb but she doesn’t mind, basking in Villanelle’s fast, noisy breath on her.</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle?”</p><p> </p><p><em> " </em> Give me a minute<em>." </em></p><p> </p><p>A minute passes.</p><p> </p><p>Two.</p><p> </p><p>She wipes her hand on the sheets and combs through blonde hair.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“You sure? Feels like you should be the one asking me, but -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle peaks up. She looks wrecked. Heavenly.</p><p> </p><p>“Starting to be, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve gets the full meaning of it, letting her head thud back against the sweating window with a satisfied hum. </p><p> </p><p>So.</p><p> </p><p>This was what sex with a woman felt like. Sex with Villanelle. Sex with all kinds of feelings she couldn’t begin to name.</p><p> </p><p>This is what it felt like to let go completely - no second-guessing, no overthinking, no almost-but-not-quite or so-close-but-not-today or just-a-little-more-to-the-left-no-to-the-right-no-not-like-that.</p><p> </p><p>She grins to herself.</p><p> </p><p>“Still got it,” she says smugly, laughing when Villanelle gives her a look.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve, you are <em> sure </em>you have never fucked a woman?”</p><p> </p><p>“Beginner’s luck.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle cranes up to steal a kiss. “I thought I would have so much to teach you but -" she purses her mouth, eyes flashing.</p><p> </p><p>"Can’t ever be too good at something."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle gives her a sneaky little smile. “Sure. Except, I can. I am fantastic in bed,” she preens, slipping her thigh between Eve’s own.</p><p> </p><p>Eve warms instantly, shaking with anticipation when Villanelle mounts her, eager, impatient, hair all over the pillow and nearly in her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Show me again,” she growls, melting completely when, instead of saying something clever or annoying, Villanelle kisses her with everything she has, slow and sound so she never forgets.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>@vracs1 on twitter ✌</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Lakes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I just remembered anything after s3e5 hasn't happened so I'm making it happen 🤦</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tweet me @vracs1 😊</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle finally gets the fire going late into the afternoon.</p><p> </p><p>Eve smells it before she sees it, the charred, sweet smoke that always reminded her of Christmas and colder days.</p><p> </p><p>She peeks out the window to see Villanelle huddled beside the flames, pushing more wood into the roaring centre. </p><p> </p><p>The kindling crackles and pops. </p><p> </p><p>She breathes it in, the fresh air, Villanelle on the pillow, the bed still warm.</p><p> </p><p>She’s sore.</p><p> </p><p>Her arms ache, her thighs where Villanelle had kissed and held on. Between her legs there’s only a dull, sated thrum.</p><p> </p><p>She wonders where Villanelle still feels her - the nape of her neck? Her shoulders? Her wrists? </p><p> </p><p>She whines, rolling onto her stomach to reach for her discarded shirt and bottoms, hardly ready to face the real world. </p><p> </p><p>The last few hours had passed in a blur, too quick and vividly crisp. The details would stay with Eve forever, she was sure.</p><p> </p><p>She liked the sounds Villanelle made, stifled by the metal walls for her ears only. She liked how <em> Oksana </em>sounded in her mouth, intimate and risky, how Villanelle gave herself completely away. </p><p> </p><p>More than anything, she liked how she made Villanelle feel, vulnerable, out of control, raw. All of it had looked so good on her, Eve wanted to see it again and again.</p><p> </p><p>She buries her face into Villanelle’s pillow and inhales. </p><p> </p><p>She can hear her humming outside. </p><p> </p><p>She makes herself get dressed and slide through the back doors, taking the blanket with her, its thick wool coarse and scratchy against her neck and the places Villanelle had kissed. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks over her shoulder. She’s in her silk pyjama set and a Barbour, walking boots on but unlaced.</p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve hit rock bottom.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle wiggles her eyebrows as she leans to heat the water in the metal pan, two ceramic cups propped by her feet. “Really? I feel excellent,” she smirks. “Don't you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fashion-wise.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” she glances down at herself unsurely, then scoots over to make room for them both, accepting the blanket Eve shares and drapes across her bare legs.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s cute. You’re missing a bucket hat.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s face lights up. “I have one of those.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m kidding,” Eve dead-pans. She picks up the mugs and drops chamomile in each, waiting for Villanelle to top her up.</p><p> </p><p>Her stomach groans as the water hits the teabags, wafting honey-steam up at her.</p><p> </p><p>“Hungry?”</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Yes.</em>"</p><p> </p><p>Up until now, she hadn’t really noticed. Sure, she’d been starving for other things. Everything seemed to take a backseat to Villanelle, who filled her so completely, she forgot about the rest.</p><p> </p><p>The smell of fried tomato and sausage makes her mouth water.</p><p> </p><p>She shuffles closer, swapping Villanelle’s mug for a plate.</p><p> </p><p>“Breakfast for dinner.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” she smiles warmly. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle smiles back and, <em> God</em>, it feels different somehow in the mellow afternoon sun, pure and domestic and uncharted. She feels her whole face burn. She stares at Villanelle’s mouth, her happy eyes, back down at her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>She licks her own.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rolls her eyes. “Are you going to kiss me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Thinking about it,” she swallows.</p><p> </p><p>“You should.”</p><p> </p><p>“I probably should, shouldn’t I?”</p><p> </p><p>“Would you like to?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve puts her plate on her lap and tucks hair behind her ear. “Is that - ?”</p><p> </p><p>“I let you sit on my face, Eve -</p><p> </p><p>“Oh my God.”</p><p> </p><p>”- I think we are past the kissing. If you are going to be awkward, I need to know, because I have big plans already and -”</p><p> </p><p>She presses her mouth to Villanelle’s, quick enough to stop the sound, hard enough to push her back a little, to earn a hand clasped to the back of her head. She feels the nudge of Villanelle’s tongue and pulls away, laughing and giddy when Villanelle tries to chase her for more.</p><p> </p><p>“Behave.”</p><p> </p><p>“There is no dessert. We should have sex again.”</p><p> </p><p>She grunts, shoving an elbow into Villanelle’s side before she's finally allowed to dig into her hot, gorgeously-made food. </p><p> </p><p>She sips her tea and stares through the flames at the landscape below.</p><p> </p><p>The air sizzles to make the blue lake dance, the trees wavering around its edges. The sound of the radio filters through the passenger window. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle continues to hum between bites but doesn’t say anything. </p><p> </p><p>It’s nice. Companionship.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stays in the periphery of her vision, watching. </p><p> </p><p>She’d be an egomaniac to think so, but it almost feels like she’s being marvelled at, consumed. She hopes she looks at Villanelle the same way.</p><p> </p><p>The clouds ahead gather and rumble. </p><p> </p><p>She can taste that metallic, electric tang just before a storm hits. There’s something so beautiful and devastating about it, part of her wishes it would start already, that the sky would just open and swallow them, that it might unleash its wildest, loudest warning and drown everything in sight.</p><p> </p><p>Part of her likes the wait, the thick crackle in the air just before, the hot anticipation, the way it always made her feel - like Villanelle had - soaked, unmoored.</p><p> </p><p>She’d like to see Villanelle in a storm. A storm within a storm. </p><p> </p><p>She chuckles.</p><p> </p><p>A shutter goes off and her head spins.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Hey.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks at her innocently. “Oh. I thought letting you see my perfect tits meant I can take pictures of you now.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No,</em>” she gawks, grabbing for the phone just out of her reach. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>No?</em>” Villanelle drops her voice playfully.</p><p> </p><p>“No. Give me -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle snaps another and then another, angling the camera between Eve’s outstretched hands until there’s at least a dozen unflattering photos Eve’s going to wipe one way or another. </p><p> </p><p>She puts her empty plate on the ground and turns. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s pouting at her with big, mischievous eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“You want this?”</p><p> </p><p>The pout turns into an incredulous smile.</p><p> </p><p>Eve crosses her legs and pulls out the clip holding her bun together.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s phone clicks.</p><p> </p><p>“Like this?” she bats her eyelashes but she’s laughing and laughing and laughing, posing haphazardly as Villanelle captures her from this side and that - greedy - with her arms up, behind her head, folded across her chest, rested against her knee. “<em>This? </em>” she tucks her fingers under her chin and looks at Villanelle through hooded eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Villanelle whispers.</p><p> </p><p>“Really?” Eve stops, serious as she sticks her open palm out for the phone. “Give me that.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle keeps it close to her chest, softening. </p><p> </p><p>“What if you delete them?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve pries her fingers loose. She deflates. </p><p> </p><p>“You never let me have any fun.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you - I never let you have any <em> fun</em>? We’ve just spent the entire day - “</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle scoots closer. “Making love?” she stage-whispers.</p><p> </p><p>“Ew.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fucking,” she says hoarsely, so low and gruff, Eve feels it between her legs.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s no inbetween with you, is there?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Nope</em>,” Villanelle smacks her lips, unlocking her phone to show Eve the gallery of blurry photos, some she quite likes but most she hopes never see the light of day.</p><p> </p><p>She zooms in on one Villanelle must have taken when she wasn’t looking.</p><p> </p><p>“Christ.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle leans into her, temple to her shoulder to look in her lap. When she speaks, Eve’s entire body vibrates with the sound.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you are the sexiest woman I have ever seen.”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your profile. Your eyes. Your nose,” she straightens, breath against Eve’s chin. She reaches to touch her there, to thumb the dip of her Cupid’s bow, the tip of her nose. “Your mouth.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve tilts her head. Something inside her lights. She nips gently at Villanelle’s finger, eager for her smile and eager to change tack.</p><p> </p><p>“I tell you all of the time. When are you going to believe it?” Villanelle whispers.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not that,” she rolls her eyes, “it’s just - irrelevant.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s relevant to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t really care about that stuff.”</p><p> </p><p>“About how you look? Yes, I know,” Villanelle laughs. “But you care about how <em> I </em> look.”</p><p> </p><p>“You always look good.”</p><p> </p><p>“See?” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, let’s not - let’s talk about something else,” Eve wipes her hands on the blanket and reaches for her mug of tea to distract herself.</p><p> </p><p>She was hot. She’d been told. Hit on, seduced, fucked, dated, hell, married. Bill had drilled it into her until it had almost become a mantra, a <em> darling-you’re-a-goddess </em> every time she looked in the mirror and heard his voice.</p><p> </p><p>But being hot was an afterthought. A thing that didn’t define her, that didn’t sit well with her either, not as naturally as being brainy, or utilitarian, or confident or bossy or ambitious. She never wore her hotness well and she didn’t intend to.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve,” Villanelle cranes to look at her. </p><p> </p><p>She sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“You make me horny.”</p><p> </p><p>The laugh bolts out of her. "Yeah, no shit, after - ”</p><p> </p><p>“I want to kiss you all of the time. Everywhere. I look at you and I want to take off your clothes. You look incredible naked. You are <em> very </em>nice to have sex with. Of course I want to take pictures of you, then I can look at you any time I want.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you learn to talk to women from Konstantin?”</p><p> </p><p><em> Shit</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Fortunately Villanelle laughs and the sound twists a small knife in her chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you so bad at taking compliments?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve nudges her with her bare foot. “Why are you so bad at giving them?”</p><p> </p><p>“I give perfect compliments. What woman doesn’t like to be objectified?” she grins.</p><p> </p><p>“Add it to the <em> 'Things I need to work on' </em>list.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle snorts. “There is no list.”</p><p> </p><p>“Baking. Already on there.”</p><p> </p><p>“You give me orgasms and then you are mean. What is this?”</p><p> </p><p>“Singing? Only sometimes, actually,” she narrows her eyes, “sometimes you don’t sound half bad.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle swats her.</p><p> </p><p>“Dancing?” she tries.</p><p> </p><p>“Dancing’s not my thing.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks so adamant then, so indignant, Eve suddenly feels fired up and playful, desperate to poke the bear, desperate to see her try. </p><p> </p><p>“No? Really, no?” she says, nonchalant.</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>The radio plays.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fuck it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She tugs the blanket off and stands, pyjama-clad and full of tea. </p><p> </p><p>This she could do - who was there to watch them?</p><p> </p><p>She nods towards the radio, arm out to coax Villanelle to her. </p><p> </p><p>“Come on then.”</p><p> </p><p>She wishes she was the one with the phone when Villanelle stares at her, mouth open, eyes glazed with embarrassment, cheeks pink from the fire.</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches her tie her laces and stand slowly, looking around as though searching for an audience that doesn’t come.</p><p> </p><p>She stalks over. She looks nervous. Her fingers tap by her sides off-rhythm, shoulders bouncing once, twice. </p><p> </p><p>Eve finally had the upper hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Good to try new things, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums, unconvinced. The song is non-descript, something Eve doesn’t recognise that has the vague eighties feel of saxophone and drum. </p><p> </p><p>They’re barely dressed, her in pyjamas and Villanelle in her jacket and boots, probably too-hot and too-cold. </p><p> </p><p>Eve makes sure to take it all in, to commit to memory every anxious twitch of Villanelle’s mouth, every fumble of her hands, so eloquent hours ago and so uncertain now. She memorises the way Villanelle’s knees knock into her own and the way their chests bump as she moves in, the way their heights misalign and their steps syncopate.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you leading or am I?”</p><p> </p><p>“I have no idea,” Villanelle whispers through gritted teeth. Eve can practically see the panic roll off her.</p><p> </p><p>“Here,” she guides hands to her waist and feels like she’s at a school dance, a foot between them. It cracks her up. Just over an hour ago she’d been three fingers deep, well on the way to her second orgasm.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle blinks down at her. She looks like she wants to say <em> am I doing okay? </em> Or <em> I don’t know this song</em>, but what she actually says is nothing, giving a soft, uneasy, breathless smile before leaning to press her cheek into brown hair.</p><p> </p><p>Eve pulls her flush, feeling Villanelle's chest rise as she inhales.</p><p> </p><p>She melts a little.</p><p> </p><p>The brown wax of Villanelle’s jacket smells like smoke but the rest of her smells familiar, pretty.</p><p> </p><p>Eve can feel the heat from Villanelle's palm simmer against her lower back, the other at her side. She tightens her arms around Villanelle’s neck and lets her eyes close.</p><p> </p><p>She hears <em> Eve </em> whispered in her hair.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think one day we will be like those old married couples - you know, like in the movies?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ballroom-dancing. Maybe we will have a weekend drinking problem.”</p><p> </p><p>She pictures it - her and Villanelle in old age, if they ever got there. Her and Villanelle at all, beyond the safe confines of this road-trip, thrust into the messy, bureaucratic reality of their lives. She pictures herself much older, having Villanelle care for her, having her be shackled to her.</p><p> </p><p>It makes her want to freeze-frame the now forever, like in one of Villanelle’s photos.</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hugs her more. </p><p> </p><p>They sway, but less.</p><p> </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>The words come out harsher than she means them to, self-preservation maybe. “We’d never make it that long. We’d consume each other before we got old.”</p><p> </p><p>The rhythm changes. Slower. Better.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s voice cracks. “It sounds kind of nice.”</p><p> </p><p>When Eve tilts back, it’s to see Villanelle hopelessly nostalgic and close to tears. She lifts on her tiptoes.</p><p> </p><p>“It does,” she mumbles before a kiss, kissing Villanelle back into that brightness she liked so much. “Want me to turn it up?”</p><p> </p><p>Fingers curl into her tee possessively. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” she chuckles, “I thought Elton was your favourite?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle steals another kiss. “You are my favourite. Elton is Bor’ka’s favourite.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve has the urge to crack a joke, to jump out of the moment via pirouette or dip, but Villanelle beats her to it, dipping her first so her stomach flip-flops and she has to grab on, gasping as she’s gently pulled to stand.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Easy</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Russia made me a romantic,” Villanelle shrugs. </p><p> </p><p>And Paris.</p><p> </p><p>Eve knew that. She’d always seen Villanelle as such, from the way Anna spoke about her to the dozens of love letters she’d been given to peruse. Villanelle acted so hard, then said soft things, like, <em> Don’t break my heart </em> and <em> I thought you were different </em> and <em> I think about you too. </em></p><p> </p><p>At first it seemed like too much, but it wasn’t. Not at all. Not even close.</p><p> </p><p>“OTT.”</p><p> </p><p>“What is that?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve shakes her head, reaching to cup her face and bring their lips together. She tries to kiss her as softly and slowly as she can. </p><p> </p><p>Her kisses in the van had been rushed at best, all over the place just like her emotions - kissing for the sake of quenching, for the sake of coming, for the sake of scratching that itch she’d had for three years.</p><p> </p><p>This one’s just for the hell of it. </p><p> </p><p>This one’s just because, because she can, because she wants to, because she might just be addicted to every tiny way Villanelle responds, leaning into her and making those quick, lovely sounds, hands on her body.</p><p> </p><p>This one is languid but full and Eve feels it in the corners of her chest, in the very core of her, carnal, simmering, selfless, the heat of Villanelle’s mouth beckoning and wet, even as the clouds gather and swell with thunder.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls back to see Villanelle just in time, the wind fickle in her hair, dry and then caramel-brown as the heavens open.</p><p> </p><p>Instead of ducking for shelter, she kisses Villanelle again, the water fast and ruthless against their cheeks, their eyes and mouths, she can hardly catch a breath from the peltering rain.</p><p> </p><p>She starts to shake.</p><p> </p><p>Her toes curl into mud.</p><p> </p><p>The flannel of her pyjamas turns heavy, her shirt translucent as Villanelle guides her blindly around the back of the van, shoving her in before she collapses on top.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Lakes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Inspo taken from that Sandra interview about resting together ughh 🤮</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are overreacting.”</p><p> </p><p>"So fucking<em> cold</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>She makes light work of the zipper, pushing Villanelle’s jacket off to find her bone-dry beneath. </p><p> </p><p>“Take off your shoes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Take off your clothes,” Villanelle challenges, toeing her boots out the door, then stripping naked before Eve’s even got her feet clean. “Or I can do it for you,” she coos.</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches frosty fingers slip beneath her shirt, lifting it off like a second skin, like chainmail, the skin beneath soothed by Villanelle’s cold mouth and warm breath ghosting across her goose-bumps.</p><p> </p><p>She can’t stop vibrating. Her teeth chatter.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls Villanelle between her legs.</p><p> </p><p>They fumble to get the pants off, Villanelle’s hair trailing and dripping over her.  </p><p> </p><p>“Being naked,” Villanelle grins, pleased, stretching so they touch at every curve, rib to rib, hip to thigh, “helps to spread body heat.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, girl-scout.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve starts to feel it kick in. Barely. She knows how to get warm quicker.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hovers above her, blissfully happy and frozen.</p><p> </p><p>She feels the beginnings of want flare again in her navel and her throat. She cups Villanelle’s frosty cheeks, nudging suggestively with her hips. </p><p> </p><p>“I can warm you up.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums, “I know. And you are very good at it.”</p><p> </p><p>“My hands or my mouth?” she whispers and suddenly feels bolstered by the shattering sound of rainfall on the tin roof, muted against the glass, tessellating over Villanelle’s face.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a laugh and then Villanelle’s hands, pinning hers above her head.</p><p> </p><p>“Walk before you run.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s fingers flex but Villanelle holds her down, just long enough for her to feel wonderfully overpowered and wanted. She moans. </p><p> </p><p>The fingers loosen, turning into breath-soft trails down her forearms, the sensitive inside of her elbow, the curve of her breast and ribs.</p><p> </p><p>She shivers.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pushes up to straddle her instead, giving her a perfect view of her alabaster skin.</p><p> </p><p>“You're hot shit.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle preens. She tosses her hair to the side, stretching lazily. Performing. </p><p> </p><p>Eve plays off her.</p><p> </p><p>“You look so perfect like this.”</p><p> </p><p>Thighs cinch around her. Villanelle sinks into her. She feels it in her clit and in her hands, curled around Villanelle’s hips to guide her.</p><p> </p><p>“Keep going.”</p><p> </p><p>The fire dies. Smoke and petrichor slip through the crack in the window and Villanelle starts to rock, slowly, slowly, not chasing, just enjoying, lazy, playful, gloating as Eve showers her with smitten praise.</p><p> </p><p>She could do this all evening, savouring the drawn-out process of building up and cresting, watching Villanelle do the same. Knowing she could make them both come in minutes is enough to build her so high she almost tips.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stills. “Turn around.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“On your stomach.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Now</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle leans down, the smooth curve of her body missed and welcome. Her kiss is clean, unexpectedly simple. A trick?</p><p> </p><p>Eve hesitates.</p><p> </p><p>“Roll over. I’m not going to hurt you.”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs, suddenly unsure, force of habit. “I thought you liked being centre of attention?”</p><p> </p><p>“I do,” Villanelle smirks, brushing their noses together, then pecking the corner of her mouth. “Your turn. Turn over.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve rolls her eyes but fuck if she doesn’t feel her own pulse booming in her ears. </p><p> </p><p>She wriggles onto her front. Waits. Waits and listens to the storm and the way Villanelle sighs, like she’s preparing, deciding.</p><p> </p><p>She peaks over her shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle crawls to her, perching on top of her ass.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Prekrasnaya</em>,” she whispers, pushing hair from Eve’s nape to expose her shoulders, her spine.</p><p> </p><p>She kisses her there, open-mouthed, light so Eve feels herself clench to stop from squirming. She drops kisses like little secrets all along her back, down to the dimples at her pelvis and back up to her face.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s this?”</p><p> </p><p>“Foreplay,” Villanelle jokes, kissing the side of her jaw, her temple, the corner of her mouth, “do you like it?”</p><p> </p><p>Before she gets to answer, Villanelle’s kissing her shoulder blade, right over her scar. </p><p> </p><p>It feels like she should’ve done it sooner, she should’ve done it first thing, snuck somewhere between bathing and sex, but one had felt too intimate and the other not intimate enough, and Eve had prioritised the feeling of wanting to curl up inside Villanelle and live there forever.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle traces the rough skin, trails her bottom lip along, licking all the way up to Eve’s neck.</p><p> </p><p>“We almost match.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve pants into the pillow. Her brain feels foggy. </p><p> </p><p>Again, she’s been reduced to something primitive, immersed in her own body and the things it was making her feel. She squeezes her thighs to relieve the ache.</p><p> </p><p>“Almost.”</p><p> </p><p>“Almost,” Villanelle breathes, sliding back down, making Eve anticipate the next move, the next ticklish kiss.</p><p> </p><p>One lands to the back of her thigh.</p><p> </p><p>She jerks. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle laughs. She takes handfuls, squeezing, massaging, thumbs curling just below the hottest, wettest parts of her.</p><p> </p><p>She misses the generous weight of Villanelle on top, the force of her moulding them into the covers, the sound and sigh of her in her ear.</p><p> </p><p>And then she misses it a little less, when Villanelle kisses her waist, kisses behind a knee, kisses and kisses so it turns into a frenzy of her trying not to kick her legs against the bed, trying not to choke on her own laughter, trying not to moan-cry-snort when Villanelle sucks a hickey into the curve of her ass and then stops altogether.</p><p> </p><p>The phone camera clicks.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Villanelle </em> - for fuck’s sake!”</p><p> </p><p>“What? I’m not doing anything,” she says sweetly. The lens shutters again before Eve can fight her way onto her back, wrestling for control.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stills her with her thighs. The pressure’s just right. She fights not to buck.</p><p> </p><p>“Ugh, you play <em> dirty</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“I will draw you - photograph you -” Villanelle shrugs, “like one of my French girls, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve collapses back onto the pillow. </p><p> </p><p>“Did you - did you just make a pop culture reference?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle takes another photo.</p><p> </p><p>“I swear I'm -” </p><p> </p><p>She's not sure what, but she will, honestly, she’ll throw that phone off a cliff first thing in the morning if she has to, she’ll finish Villanelle off by orgasm if it came to it - what did the French call it, <em> petite-mort</em>? - but first - </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck, I wish I had a polaroid,” Villanelle whistles, staring down at her phone screen, zooming in with her fingers, “I think you would look good in sepia, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“You need to hear some of the shit that comes out of your mouth.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle looks up at her. There’s so much more in her eyes than hunger, which Eve expects, but isn’t ready for the awe, the humility, and so such tenderness. </p><p> </p><p>“I will delete these, I promise. Just let me look at you a bit. I never get to look at you for so long, always rushing, always -” she swallows, “chasing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Always chasing,” Eve echoes.</p><p> </p><p>They kiss. It soothes her, a little - a distraction.</p><p> </p><p>She tries not to shrink or feel self-conscious when Villanelle winks, taking photos of her face, her breasts, the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her navel.</p><p> </p><p>She’d never done this with anyone. </p><p> </p><p>She wanted to find it clinical, cliche, <em> Hollywood </em> , except, Villanelle <em> was </em>Hollywood, she was the flare and the drama, the action and mystery, the romance, the sex, but all from the heart beneath that glossy bravado. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle cups her face and clicks.</p><p> </p><p>Caresses the hot, wet seam of her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Clicks.</p><p> </p><p>Dips her thumb inside.</p><p> </p><p>Clicks.</p><p> </p><p>Each click makes her throb harder, the knowledge that if she wanted it, the image of her sucking Villanelle’s fingers could stay forever, she could look at it any time - at work, on the Tube, at the grocery store, and be reminded of this exact moment.</p><p> </p><p>She could have images of herself with her hand between her legs while Villanelle watches. It’s too much and she groans, bursting into embarrassed giggles as her hands fly up to cover her face.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle kisses her again.</p><p> </p><p>“What's so funny?”</p><p> </p><p>She’s getting hysterical. Her whole body writhes with laughter. “Nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Am I funny?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is this funny to you?” Villanelle teases, fake-serious as she scoots to kiss above her heart gently.</p><p> </p><p>“A little,” Eve bites her lip, eyes watering.</p><p> </p><p>“Really,” she hums, foregoing her breasts to kiss between her ribs.</p><p> </p><p>She tries to jerk away. “Don’t!”</p><p> </p><p>“So funny,” Villanelle mumbles to herself, dropping lower to tickle the inside of a thigh with her breath, knowing the intricacies of her better than she knew herself.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop! Villanelle - Jesus, stop it!” she sinks hands into blonde hair, fisting, unsure whether to push or pull. </p><p> </p><p>She’s dripping.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle noses into her.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oh </em> -”</p><p> </p><p>Kisses her once.</p><p> </p><p>“- fuck. <em> Oksana</em>," she yanks.</p><p> </p><p>She glances down to see Villanelle looking up between her legs with dark, glistening eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry -”</p><p> </p><p>Another kiss. “Say it again.”</p><p> </p><p>She thinks her heart might beat right out of her chest. </p><p> </p><p>“Oksana.”</p><p> </p><p>The phone starts to vibrate and then ring.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No</em>! No - don’t get it. Don’t get it,” she pleads, arching up to feel more, devastated when Villanelle rolls to reach for the phone, snarling as she answers.</p><p> </p><p>“Call back. I’m busy -”</p><p> </p><p>“Where the shittin' hell are you two?”</p><p> </p><p>“Taking a vacation,” Villanelle snaps.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s skin starts to prickle. She rolls up the blankets and motions for Villanelle to scoot up, to be closer so she can listen in.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got a job to finish pal - some cheek, tellin’ me -”</p><p> </p><p>Eve grabs the phone, “Hey, it’s me, sorry, you - caught us at a bad time.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve - I’ve had Carolyn breathin’ down me arse for three fuckin’ days -”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Boring</em>!” </p><p> </p><p>Eve smacks a hand across Villanelle’s mouth, cringing when Villanelle licks her.</p><p> </p><p>“We got a little lost -”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s M6 to A1, how -”</p><p> </p><p>“Long story. I promise we’ll be there -"</p><p> </p><p>“Tomorrow?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Right,” she nods, rolling her eyes as Villanelle starts to pull faces, mimicking her. “Where is it we’re going again?”</p><p> </p><p>“Carlisle, Eve. You’re goin’ to fuckin’ Carlisle. Are you takin’ the mick?”</p><p> </p><p>“Carlisle,” she hums.</p><p> </p><p>She wants to go back to three minutes ago.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you not - are you alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine. I’m so good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because if you're not, if your head’s not in the game -”</p><p> </p><p>“It is! And Villanelle’s - head,” she swallows. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle licks her lips, moving to crawl back down the bed again.</p><p> </p><p>“I have to go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve -”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll call you.”</p><p> </p><p>“- if you don’t feel safe -”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll call you,” she says again and disconnects, growling in frustration. </p><p> </p><p>The whole thing tips like an ice-bath on her libido. </p><p> </p><p>She looks down at Villanelle and wants to apologise, to fuck, to snuggle, to talk, to not think about the rest of the world ever again.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle lets out a quiet, resigned sigh and curls back up beside her, pulling her in.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine."</p><p> </p><p>"You don't want me to go down?"</p><p> </p><p>Eve groans. "I <em> do</em>. I <em> don’t </em> want to go to stupid Carlisle.”</p><p> </p><p>“We will be finished soon.”</p><p> </p><p>The sky outside alights.</p><p> </p><p>“But what if we aren’t? What if it’s all just an endless - <em> game</em>, a fucking charade, just one thing after another, over and - what if - <em> ugh</em>. I don’t know,” she palms Villanelle’s cheek, the anger in her dying at the sympathetic way Villanelle looks at her. “I think I’m just tired. I'm being an asshole. I need a break.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are always an asshole. And we are having a break.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve whines. “Not really? I wish -- it would all just stop.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle starts to run fingers across her scalp, soothing her, lulling her into momentary respite. </p><p> </p><p>“So do I.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes it feels like the only person I can rest with is you.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hugs her. </p><p> </p><p>“Same, Eve,” a kiss lands to the crown of her head.“Funny, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Funny in the worst way.</p><p> </p><p>“We can rest. Soon. But not yet - not for long.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve nuzzles her way into the dark cocoon of Villanelle’s neck, letting herself be held, cherishing the moment for as long as it lasted.</p><p> </p><p>A clap of thunder rattles the van.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” she mumbles. She kisses Villanelle’s pulse, inhaling her perfume. “Never for too long.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>@vracs1 on Twitter</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Carlisle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Who else is bummed out about s4? 🙄</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Leather murder wives</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Driving with Villanelle after having sex with her is - different.</p><p> </p><p>There’s no tension, no stretched silence, no stolen glances or that deep, gnawing desire to touch her in some way, right across the gear shift. </p><p> </p><p>There’s just music and easy happiness and Villanelle with her hair down, windows down, guard down, grinning as she lets herself be fed the remains of their on-the-road lunch. </p><p> </p><p>The morning had been slow.</p><p> </p><p>Eve hadn’t had the heart to migrate to the passenger seat after hours in the back, tangled up in blankets, naked, beneath Villanelle and then on her until her jaw had started to ache.</p><p> </p><p>She’d barely managed to motivate herself to get dressed, to figure out the route to Carlisle and update Bear on their evolving whereabouts. </p><p> </p><p>The only saving grace had been Villanelle, bribing her with playful kisses to distract her from the job and the reality that hours from now, one, or both of them, might be in really deep shit.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle had been such a lovely distraction, perched in her lap in the front seat with her shirt off and her pretty hair and her 'perfect tits', Eve had managed to forget Carlisle completely, focussing instead on the wet, pleading heat between Villanelle’s legs and how she might go about setting it out without getting her slacks stained.</p><p> </p><p>She could do it again.</p><p> </p><p>She would.</p><p> </p><p>She could do it on a tireless loop, her on top and then Villanelle on top and then just a tangle of limbs where Villanelle ended and she began, twisting and curling indefinitely.</p><p> </p><p>She tucks the empty sandwich wrapper inside the door with shaky hands and fishes out her lighter.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“Last one, I swear.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle raises an eyebrow at her knowingly, pocketing the creased cigarette pack but ignoring the one dangling from her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Last one.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve nods, lighting and inhaling, the nicotine flooding all the neurotic parts of her brain that had craved a hit for five days. It floods the stubborn pulse between her legs too.</p><p> </p><p>“God, that’s good.”</p><p> </p><p>“You kiss me with that mouth.”</p><p> </p><p>She licks her lips and exhales through the window. </p><p> </p><p>She’d kissed Villanelle. So many times, she’d lost count minutes in. God how she’d kissed her, like she’d never kissed anyone in her life, all across her face and the rest of her, scouring and quenching her thirst at Villanelle’s palest, weakest, most beautiful parts.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle tasted like perfume - sharp at her pulse points, her neck and ear lobes, the soft skin at her wrists.</p><p> </p><p>Tasted like nothing at all where she was broad and strong and smelt instead like summer.</p><p> </p><p>Tasted fresh and tangy where only Eve was allowed to go and hence where she lost herself and marked her favourite spots.</p><p> </p><p>So, sure, smoking messed with that - a lot, fine - but fuck if it didn’t feel good, if it didn’t catapult her into a false sense of comfort only bad habits could bring.</p><p> </p><p>“Does it bother you?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a face. “Does it bother me that the woman I am fucking smells like an ashtray?”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be a jerk. And - fuck you,” she laughs, exhaling again.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck me,” Villanelle laughs incredulously. “You did. Very nicely, actually.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve smacks her, far enough away from her scar.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>O- </em>kay. Look. You are sexy when you smoke, Eve,” Villanelle merges lanes, then turns to look at her once she’s found a steady speed, “it makes me want to put your mouth in other places. And I’m kidding - I think you smell beautiful, you are my favourite smell. But you would be sexier if you quit. Smoking is for people with no self-control. And Gemma,” she wrinkles her nose. “And Parisian influencers.”</p><p> </p><p>She stares at the lit end of her cigarette, watching it flicker in ambers and blacks, the steam winding and unwinding. “I <em> have </em>no self-control,” she dead-pans, “not with this,” she waves her hand, “and not with you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not with me,” Villanelle smirks.</p><p> </p><p>“Nope.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” she coos, tipping her chin up gleefully so Eve can see the devastating angle of her jaw, her neck and the hint of a bruise she doesn’t remember leaving.</p><p> </p><p>Her thighs twitch.</p><p> </p><p>“You can have <em> one</em>. It’s your last one - a goodbye-smoke. Unless you want to find someone else to kiss.”</p><p> </p><p>“Um - I’m pretty sure that’s blackmail?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” Villanelle shrugs, smacking her lips. “Is it working?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve slumps in her seat. She takes one last deep, resigned drag and tosses the rest, staring longingly as the white dashes slip beneath the wheels.</p><p> </p><p>“Besides - you are already fifty-five -”</p><p> </p><p>Eve snorts.</p><p> </p><p>“- I don’t want you to hit sixty, not able to keep up.”</p><p> </p><p>“The age joke’s getting a little old.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grins.</p><p> </p><p>“And I <em> already </em>can’t keep up, hello, Cotswolds?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, this is my point. Quitting means we can go together: Dolomites. Alps. South America. Also we can have sex all day - nice, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve props her feet up on the dash and unscrews the bottle of water sitting between them, swigging to smooth out the frog in her throat and the heat in her cheeks, then offering Villanelle the rest.</p><p> </p><p>“Hasn’t stopped me before,” she says boldly, tapping Villanelle’s thigh.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle laughs around a swallow. “Don’t start what you can't carry on, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>And she did. Always.</p><p> </p><p>That had been a first. Villanelle had made her come four times in one night, and then another two the following day, when she’d been convinced she physically couldn’t take any more, dehydrated and tired but quietly buzzing for more.</p><p> </p><p>With Niko things had started off okay, hit-and-miss for the most part, satisfying almost-never. With him, orgasms came with real life and marriage, stress and work, a mortgage, a car payment plan, in-laws, things that slowly piled up and chipped away at her interest.</p><p> </p><p>Not that those things would chip away now.</p><p> </p><p>Despite a gunshot and a stabbing, several bereavements, hide-and-seek in multiple countries and the everyday requirements of working for someone like Carolyn, she’d found little change in her primal desire for Villanelle: first to find her, then to know her, then lose her, then have her all to herself in every way Villanelle was willing to give.</p><p> </p><p>They could get a mortgage, a dog, a couple of desk-jobs, and she’d still want Villanelle in all the ways a person could want somebody.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe it clouded her judgement.</p><p> </p><p>She didn't care. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey - I was joking. About the sex.”</p><p> </p><p>She slips back to reality. “No,” she scoffs, “it’s not that - and - I <em> know</em>. I’m just -”</p><p> </p><p>“Thinking,” Villanelle teases.</p><p> </p><p>“All nice things - or not so nice,” she smiles brazenly, reaching to squeeze the hand resting at the base of the steering wheel.</p><p> </p><p>She feels something inside her teeter. </p><p> </p><p>It felt like they were right on the cusp of - she didn’t know. Something good? Something sweet? Something heartbreakingly real? She wasn’t ready to lose it now she knew how precious it could be, how open Villanelle could be. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you feel like Bonnie and Clyde yet?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares in front at the sprawling motorway, the overhead sign that points to <em> Carlisle </em> and then <em> Edinburgh </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Instead of accepting it as a running joke, it isn't funny to her any more - <em> Bonnie and Clyde </em> reminded her of Rome and all the times they’d chewed away at each other, raging with hate and want, a fine line between them Eve had crossed a long time ago.</p><p> </p><p>Also - <em> Bonnie and Clyde </em> died. Mentioning it an hour before her first actual mission made her want to cry.</p><p> </p><p>“After last night? A little. Yeah. Maybe. Not really.”</p><p> </p><p>“No?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean - van-sex in a freak storm like a pair of horny teenagers is -”</p><p> </p><p>“Fantastic.”</p><p> </p><p>She <em> tsks</em>. “The dying part - not so much.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle indicates to take the exit, searching for Eve's hand, eyes on the road. When they link, Villanelle squeezes her hard, then lifts her to her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Nobody is dying.”</p><p> </p><p>“You sure?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle kisses between her knuckles, turning to kiss inside her palm too.</p><p> </p><p>“I won't let anything happen to you, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>"You can't promise that.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am good at my job,” she says, voice low and serious, eyes green and turned on her. “I will keep you safe.”</p><p> </p><p>“What if<em> I </em> have to keep <em> you </em>safe?”</p><p> </p><p>“Then you should stab to kill this time,” Villanelle flashes an awful little smile that makes Eve’s stomach simultaneously curl and flip on itself.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p>The farm is - well, a farm.</p><p> </p><p>An actual farm.</p><p> </p><p>There are animals, and a barn, hay, <em> lots </em> of hay, tractors. All the things that should be there.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s not sure why she’d hoped for something else.</p><p> </p><p>She figured dirty money meant dirty building-work, some sort of fake set-up to launder Bossche’s mess.</p><p> </p><p>This place catches her off-guard. Makes her feel tense, with its polished professionalism and deathly quiet.</p><p> </p><p><em> P J Tractor Parts </em> sits slanted and glistening in bright, new letters on top of an industrial-looking shed.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle cracks her knuckles and takes a deep breath, infuriatingly relaxed.</p><p> </p><p>“Mmm. This is the smell of Mother Russia.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve grunts. “Cow shit?”</p><p> </p><p>“Cow shit and pickled cabbage.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wow. Can’t wait to visit again.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle darkens, crossing her arms, warning glance thrown Eve’s way. “You won't.”</p><p> </p><p>“No? I honest-to-God thought Moscow was charming as hell. Personal highlight? State-of-the-art prison system, hands down. Surprising. The men, too - way bigger and hairier than ours. I reckon a lot of people are into that, actually. Like Carolyn.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be smart.”</p><p> </p><p>“Also, the women?”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not big and hairy, that's not -" she rambles. She was really so very, very nervous. “I just meant - beautiful women - <em> you </em> - <em> obviously</em>. Not other women, I haven’t actually met many other Russian women - Anna, I’ve met Anna, but she - doesn’t count. Villanelle, I’m -  It’s a compliment - I -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle spins on her booted heel and grabs her hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey. Eve -”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“- are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>She nods adamantly. She can feel fear prickling at the back of her neck beneath her new Ted Baker leather jacket, palm clammy against Villanelle’s warm, dry skin.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to wait in the van?”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you kidding? How would that work?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know?” Villanelle shrugs, looking at her softly and worriedly and lovingly. “We don’t have to do this together.”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> want </em>to do this together.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because you haven’t had the right - training, it’s okay if - whatever you feel, it’s normal.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don't need training. I already killed someone. With an axe. Remember?”</p><p> </p><p>“Crime of passion,” Villanelle reminds her gently.</p><p> </p><p>Passion seemed like the wrong fit. She’d killed Raymond in sheer panic, brutally, with absolutely no finesse and maximum spillage, because she truly believed Villanelle would die on her watch.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t believe that now.</p><p> </p><p>She believes that a) she needs to be here because she hadn’t been there for Bristol or Birmingham, and Villanelle had ended up bruised and battered beyond belief (not that being there would’ve helped, probably) and b) they were in this together now, really together, least she could do was throw herself in front of a right hook if it came to that.</p><p> </p><p>She felt like she owed something to Villanelle, had to prove something to her, to herself.</p><p> </p><p>Still. She wasn't ready. When had she ever been, for any of this?</p><p> </p><p>“Murder is murder. I should be in prison.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rolls her eyes as they start to cross the muddy field towards the giant, looming metal doors, separating them from the inside of the shed.</p><p> </p><p>“First, <em> I should be dead</em>,” she mimicks her accent perfectly. “Then, <em> I should be in prison</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> should</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know what I should be doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t -”</p><p> </p><p>“I should be back in Barcelona, in my beautiful house with high-pressure taps and six bedrooms, trying to fuck you in all of them before it’s time for my balayage.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not helping.”</p><p> </p><p>“A little bit - admit it,” she smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“What <em> helps </em> is knowing your gun’s loaded.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“And Bear’s on speed-dial.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle groans. “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you’ve read the brief.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle cringes innocently, setting her off.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>How</em> many times -”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Eve</em>,” she grins. “I have read the brief. You are with me - of course I have read the brief. I’m not going to put you in danger, but I could do this without one, very easy, I am so good at improvisation,” she brags and Eve thinks bitterly of Konstantin, munching away on his crisps beside her, laughing his belly laugh at the unplanned sound of book-to-Aaron-Peel’s-face echo through the spy-van speakers.  </p><p> </p><p>“Quit dicking around,” she snaps, letting go of Villanelle’s hand to wipe her sweaty fingers against her jeans, arms knotting across her chest against the balmy summer wind.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle wriggles her eyebrows before her knuckles raise against the cool metal.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Show time</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>She raps. </p><p> </p><p>The metal clangs.</p><p> </p><p>The doors whine open and Eve's stomach drops.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>@vracs1 on Twitter 😊</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Carlisle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Trigger warning: homophobia, offensive language, xenophobia</p><p>It'a a bumpy next 3, sorry!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>The man who greets them - <em> greets </em> in the loose sense - is stubby, ginger, rotund the way Raymond was but more Northern, sweatier and abruptly straight to the point.</p><p> </p><p>“Who the fuck are you?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle smiles politely, “Sorry for botherin’ you, you must be - <em> super </em>busy,” she says sweetly but Eve picks up on the underlying sarcasm, “me friend and I were just wonderin’ if you might be able to help us,” she drawls and Eve tries to look ahead and not at her, distracted by the pitch-perfect Yorkshire twang Villanelle seamlessly puts on. “See, our van -” she gestures non-discriptly behind her shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>He grunts. “Buggered?"</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. <em> Exactly</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>He eyes them both like he’s eyeing a cold pint, sausage fingers in the pockets of his denim cut-offs. He doesn’t shift. He sniffs, phlegm gurgling at the back of his throat before it’s spat out just inches from Villanelle’s boot. </p><p> </p><p>“What d’you think I’m gonna do about it?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t miss the quick glance Villanelle flicks her way, mouth twitching in disgust before her face changes, her entire body loose and confident as she leans in a little.</p><p> </p><p>“Just figured, a big, strong, capable man like yourself -”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs, gruff, condescending, side-stepping to let them in, but slowly, and barely.</p><p> </p><p>Eve feels his leering presence as they squeeze past him. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m just messin' with you. You women and cars - ain’t supposed to mix,” he calls after them into the echoing space.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a gagging motion but Eve doesn’t laugh, too pent up to appreciate it.</p><p> </p><p>“Got yourself a lovely place here,” Villanelle says, making a point of looking around, overly-invested, tactical.</p><p> </p><p>“Aye,” he heads past them to the work station occupied by an impressive desktop and surround system at the far corner of the intimidating space. “Built it meself. Where’d you say you two were headed?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve clears her throat. “South.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that right?” </p><p> </p><p>“We’re on our way back down.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where’d you come from?”</p><p> </p><p>“Highlands,” she lies</p><p> </p><p>“Alright for some,” he mocks, turning to dig through a cabinet.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe they could shoot him in the back. Nice and quick and over.</p><p> </p><p>Or skip that whole part. Get the fuck out of there, ideally. </p><p> </p><p>Nothing about twin-Raymond sits right. Not the way his eyes bounce from her, to Villanelle, to her again, greedy. Not the way he smiles, razor-sharp and double-edged, Eve could quite happily never see its dry smarm again.</p><p> </p><p>“You been to Skye?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s gaze flashes. “Yeah. <em> Great </em>gin.”</p><p> </p><p>“Misty Isle? Aye. More of a Scotch fan, meself, but aye -” he raises an eyebrow and Eve wants to hurl.</p><p> </p><p>There's no way this man was part of The Twelve. No way in hell someone took one look at his breasts, his <em> Man-U </em> jersey, his 'dad' signet ring and thought, <em> yeah this man's perfect for us. </em></p><p> </p><p>Funny though, because she'd said the same thing about Raymond and watched him almost kill them both.</p><p> </p><p>She hovers by the seat that’s offered to her, choosing to stay close enough to Villanelle to feel some semblance of safety.</p><p> </p><p>Finally he procures a toolbelt.</p><p> </p><p>“So which one of you fancies showin’ me round your van, then?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shoots Eve a look as if to say, <em> change of plan</em>, but it's too late. Eve's offering herself up like they'd agreed, a lamb to slaughter, hoping she doesn't fall victim to sexual assault as well as a murder charge.</p><p> </p><p>She gives a gritted smile and takes the keys.</p><p> </p><p>"My lucky day.”</p><p> </p><p>"Two birds on me doorstep? You ain't the one gettin' lucky, love."</p><p> </p><p>A heavy hand sinks onto the small of her back, right beneath the warm, suffocating leather of her jacket.</p><p> </p><p>Her body goes hard.</p><p> </p><p>She fights not to jerk away, to drop-kick him, to turn to Villanelle and beg her to save them both the trouble.</p><p> </p><p>She feels Villanelle try not to shake with rage from across the room.</p><p> </p><p>She wills her to stay put, to stick to what they’d agreed.</p><p> </p><p>Mini-Raymond turns. "Try not gettin’ your powder all over me tech, aye?"</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes widen and then narrow, and she goes through a chain of micro-expressions Eve wishes she could stay and sit through just for how impressive they are.</p><p> </p><p>She does catch the middle finger Villanelle chucks a moment before fake-Raymond turns and heaves the metal doors closed.</p><p> </p><p>The walk back to the van is awkward. </p><p> </p><p>Eve's not great at small-talk, even though she needs to be, now more than ever. She's even worse at tolerating unwanted sexual advances that feel more like verbal molestation, but for the sake of her own wellbeing -</p><p> </p><p>She keeps her eyes trained on the flat field and her fists in her pockets, wishing she'd at least had the foresight to bring a knife or pepper-spray or her mobile phone, forgotten in the bag she'd left with Villanelle.</p><p> </p><p>"Tell you somethin’ - I don't normally go for women from your part of the world."</p><p> </p><p>Eve coughs. "What part is that?"</p><p> </p><p>"China."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm British."</p><p> </p><p>A long, confused stare.</p><p> </p><p>She takes a measured breath.</p><p> </p><p>"British Korean."</p><p> </p><p>"Korean," he snarls. "Don't you lot eat dogs over there?"</p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck this</em>. Villanelle owed her. Big.</p><p> </p><p>"No," she says slowly, trying to keep her voice from cracking, "that's actually a really common misconception. There’s still a huge divide between -"</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Jesus </em> fuckin’ Mary 'n Joseph, you've got to be havin’ me on," he steamrolls loudly over her, "where'd you get this bastard? This thing’s -" he slams his hand on the turquoise hood, making the metal vibrate, "bloody fallin’ apart, ain't it? Surprised you managed any drivin’ at all."</p><p> </p><p>Eve cranes up to the sky. She stares at the birds overhead so she doesn't have to watch the way Northern-Raymond slides his tool-belt off his sagging waistline, the way sweat drips off him, the way he grunts as he pops the hood and tongues between his cavities.</p><p> </p><p>"What'd you say your name was?"</p><p> </p><p>She panics. They hadn't gone over <em> any </em> of this. </p><p> </p><p>"Evelin."</p><p> </p><p>"Ain’t very Korean, that."</p><p> </p><p>"Actually, I’m -" <em> Fucking hell just lie. </em> "- British-American."</p><p> </p><p>"Explains that cheesy accent.”</p><p> </p><p>She gives a purse-lipped smile.</p><p> </p><p>"What's your pal's name then?"</p><p> </p><p>"Victoria."</p><p> </p><p>"Victoria," he tries it on for size, saying it again as if mulling it over. "Like Vicky Beckham. You support Man-U?"</p><p> </p><p>She eyes his jersey. "No."</p><p> </p><p>The screws clatter as they twist, metal-on-metal as he fiddles with the engine, checking and re-checking with greasy hands.</p><p> </p><p>"This neck o’ the woods, best start bein’ one. Any team, for that matter, if you plan stayin’ in this country very long."</p><p> </p><p>She'd snuck an extra pack of Marlboros down the hatch of the glove compartment just days ago. She wonders whether now would be a good time to get them, whilst Villanelle's not there to give her a bollocking. </p><p> </p><p>She moves to open the side door when the hood bangs shut.</p><p> </p><p>"Nothin' wrong with your van, girl."</p><p> </p><p>"What - are you sure?"</p><p> </p><p>"Aye. Engine looks fine to me. No overheatin’. All connected up. Want it firin' up to check?"</p><p> </p><p>"Oh," she nods, heart pounding. "Could you - take a look at the wheels as well real quick? Wonder if we have a burst tyre or something."</p><p> </p><p>She gestures vaguely to the front tyres, smiling gingerly, eyes falling to her watch as soon as he’s on his knees.</p><p> </p><p>The thought of Villanelle not having enough time fills her with panic. She taps her foot into the soft, rubbery mud, listing off in her head all the things she could possibly ask to stall him.</p><p> </p><p>"So you own a tractor business?"</p><p> </p><p>He looks over his shoulder. His jeans creak with oil stains.</p><p> </p><p>"Aye. Somethin’ like that."</p><p> </p><p>"My ex-husband grew up on a farm, Poland actually, lots of tractors - "</p><p> </p><p>"What’s he doin’ in this country then? Lookin’ for work?"</p><p> </p><p>"No."</p><p> </p><p>He makes a repulsed sort of sound and Eve wants to throttle him.</p><p> </p><p>She tries not to groan. She’s ashamed of herself.</p><p> </p><p>"Business must be good to keep this place up and running."</p><p> </p><p>"Aye, the best," he winks. "Tractors and women ain't so different - lube ‘em up, you can ride ‘em all you like."</p><p> </p><p>She fists the lining of her jacket pockets.</p><p> </p><p>"Your wife must - love that.” <em> Oh God</em>.</p><p> </p><p>"Divorced."</p><p> </p><p>"Shocker," she mutters. "So...there a lot of money in this type of work?"</p><p> </p><p>"Lot more than people reckon. I do me job, I keep me mouth shut."</p><p> </p><p>Eve pinches the bridge of her nose, urging herself to go on. “Good management?"</p><p> </p><p>He stands up, transferring the sweat from his forehead onto the passenger window. </p><p> </p><p>"I'm me own boss, love. Tyres are fine."</p><p> </p><p>"I meant - the consumer, or whoever - you know what, never mind," she says half-heartedly, trying to loiter. There wasn’t much point digging for info.</p><p> </p><p>"Filthy fuckin’ rich," he laughs and Eve’s relieved when he steps past her towards the back of the van. “Might as well take a wee look back 'ere, they like to pop a box -”  he considers explaining it to her, then thinks better of it, "it ain't important. Piss-poor 60s engineering, style over -"</p><p> </p><p>The doors creak open and Eve's not sure she's ever seen colour actually drain from a face before.</p><p> </p><p>"What's all this?"</p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The bed's unmade. The candles don't help. There’s lingerie on the pillow. The stash of various weapons bar the gun Villanelle took is, thankfully, locked shut.</p><p> </p><p>"Excuse me?"</p><p> </p><p>"You two sleepin’ in here or what?"</p><p> </p><p>"Uh - yeah - but -" </p><p> </p><p>Her whole face starts to burn.</p><p> </p><p>She didn't have to defend herself. Not for who she shared her bed with or what she did in it.</p><p> </p><p>And yet.</p><p> </p><p>The realisation is a slap in the face - the fact that not everywhere was like London, not everyone was like the people she surrounded herself with, liberal and supportive or at least indifferent to the kinds of things she now found herself having with Villanelle.</p><p> </p><p>They'd overlooked it.</p><p> </p><p>He’d already be dead if Villanelle were here.</p><p> </p><p>"That's a bit fucked, don't you think? Can't afford a hotel or -"</p><p> </p><p>"That's -"</p><p> </p><p>"- are you two dykes?" he spits.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re -”</p><p> </p><p>"Fuckin’ disgustin’, aye? You're havin’ a right bloody laugh, comin’ here, takin’ me for a fuckin’ ride."</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches his fists, half expecting him to come at her, wincing when he clears his throat and slams the back of the van shut aggressively. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t touch her.</p><p> </p><p>He strides off and leaves her, frazzled from the whiplash of being discovered, of being insulted, of experiencing this for the first time in her life.</p><p> </p><p>She scrambles after him, determined to keep pace and slow them both down, but too mortified to do so.</p><p> </p><p>The warehouse rounds in on them in minutes.</p><p> </p><p>She's panting hard by the time they reach it, clammy with adrenaline-sweat and overcome with fear as the metal doors heave open to reveal Villanelle in the office chair, rifling through the desktop, surrounded by files.</p><p> </p><p>Her heart stops.</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck d’you think you’re doin’?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle snaps to attention.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m so sorry, I tried -” </p><p> </p><p>She's shoved out the way.</p><p> </p><p>She expects Villanelle to bolt from her chair but she pushes off the desk calmly, biker jacket hooked to the back of the seat.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Ehm - takin' a gander at your online catalogue? Nice tractors, mind you," she cracks a half-smile and Eve tries desperately to figure out where the fuck she’d put the gun.</p><p> </p><p>A hand shoots out and clamps tight around her wrist.</p><p> </p><p>Her blood freezes.</p><p> </p><p>“Igor. Sasha.” </p><p> </p><p>Two suited men built like cliffs emerge from an entrance behind Villanelle, towering as they descend.</p><p> </p><p>Eve struggles.</p><p> </p><p>She tries to twist away from the grip but is yanked, instead, a few steps to the left so she feels the bulge of the body behind her, smells sweat and cheap cologne and car oil.</p><p> </p><p>She heaves and swallows.</p><p> </p><p>She hears herself start to gasp, quick, uneven breaths.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” Villanelle nods, slowly, sagely, turning to check out the pair of skinheads.</p><p> </p><p>In her head, Eve begs her to do something. <em> Anything</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“That pickled smell,” she rolls her wrist, “now it makes a <em> lot </em>of sense,” she makes a face, twirling back on the chair to look at Eve, eyes draining of any playfulness Eve usually found in them. “Let go of her.”</p><p> </p><p>The hold tightens, so tight, Eve’s whole arm throbs, shoulder whining in its joint until she cries.</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle,” she whispers pleadingly.</p><p> </p><p>“Who the <em> fuck </em>are you, you lyin’ wee bitch?” he bites and Eve loses her footing, toppling backward as arms come around her shoulders, clenched around her neck to push all air from her lungs.</p><p> </p><p>Hard as she tries, they only squeeze tighter and tighter, locking beneath her chin until she starts to see stars.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle bolts <em> then</em>, sending the chair zipping back into one of the men.</p><p> </p><p>She whips her gun from the small of her back.</p><p> </p><p>Snaps it off the safety and points to shoot behind Eve’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>Doesn’t realise she’s too slow until the back of her head comes flush with the barrel of a rifle.</p><p> </p><p>A click.</p><p> </p><p>A thrust. </p><p> </p><p>And nothing but, “<em>Oksana</em>!” screamed high and loud, a nanosecond too late.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Twitter @vracs1</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Carlisle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Thanks for all the lovely comments ✌</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle drop, first on her knees and then her hands, fingers splayed out to catch herself. </p><p> </p><p>Igor hits her again, elbow to the back of her head until she's flat, cheek flush with the cold, muddy ground just feet away from where Eve stands, horrified but frozen.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Don't </em> - don't -"</p><p> </p><p>Igor glances up, then proceeds to toss Villanelle onto her back, fist so tight in the white cotton of her shirt Eve thinks it might rip.</p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle's loose limbs, the way she teeters just on the wrong side of conscious, eyes bleary, slack-jawed.</p><p> </p><p>The arms around Eve's neck squeeze but she shoves and shoves and shoves.</p><p> </p><p>Another punch, the smack-thud reverberating.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Stop it</em>!"</p><p> </p><p>Igor props the gun just out of reach. The smattered metal shines tauntingly. He sandwiches Villanelle between his thighs and pushes up his sleeves.</p><p> </p><p>His knuckles crack.</p><p> </p><p>Eve's stomach turns. The sound makes her retch.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Hocemo malo da se poigramo, ah? </em>"</p><p> </p><p>The sigh of hardware winding down fills the room, the screech of wheels as Sasha pushes away from the desktop and reappears in Eve’s line of sight.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Daj, ne seri</em>."</p><p> </p><p>Igor laughs. He turns to Walmart-Raymond with raised eyebrows.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s entire body spasms against her restraints.</p><p> </p><p>The question hovers, sickening.</p><p> </p><p>She starts to shout, to try to wake Villanelle up while she still can, to scream past the clammy hand around her mouth, holding in the sounds.</p><p> </p><p>“Shut the <em> fuck </em> up.”</p><p> </p><p>She feels rough stubble scrape against her cheek and she begins to beg again, muffled, fast, desperate, watching Igor lean into Villanelle with his whole weight.</p><p> </p><p>The meaning behind his previous question gleams in his teeth, his humourless laugh, the way Sasha looks on, calm but invested.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle moans. </p><p> </p><p>Eve can see blood smeared beneath her head, a small, crimson pool, sticky on Igor’s hands each time he presses into her, hovering. </p><p> </p><p>He fists her hair.</p><p> </p><p>The pain’s just enough to open Villanelle's eyes - Eve prays she can see her, to know she's not in this alone, not yet - and Villanelle bucks, spitting in his face before her head collides with the ground again. </p><p> </p><p>A crack, like the snap of a branch.</p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn't realise she's crying until Villanelle turns blurry. Her sobbing cuts through the silence, little bursts of air snuck through her swollen throat.</p><p> </p><p>Fingers wrap around Villanelle's neck.</p><p> </p><p>"Look at me."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle whines. She's not there. She's not fighting, just writhing on the floor like a fish out of water, bruised, sleepy. </p><p> </p><p>The words tumble in Eve's chest, how softly she'd said them to Villanelle in the van, how much they repulsed her now.</p><p> </p><p>She strains to stare at the ceiling, to stem the tears.</p><p> </p><p>She tries to conjure images of Villanelle - reaching for the gun, taking all three out in seconds, saving them both - instead of Igor, on top of her like a starving dog, frothing and immovable.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Gledaj</em> <em>me</em>," he barks above her. </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Jebi </em> se."</p><p> </p><p>Her heart jumps at Villanelle's voice, strained but there. "Oksana -"</p><p> </p><p>Sasha laughs. "<em>Opa</em>!" he claps his hands, laughing harder as Villanelle begins to twist, fighting against the greying of her lips, the pallor in her cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>"Let her go! Let her <em> go</em>, you piece of <em> shit </em> -"</p><p> </p><p>She feels braver, bolstered suddenly by the glimmer of hope in Villanelle's revival, her cocky defiance.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha stoops to collect the gun and step between them.</p><p> </p><p>"Do whatever you want to me - don't touch her - don't <em> fucking </em> touch her -"</p><p> </p><p>The barrel swings round to her. She freezes.</p><p> </p><p>Not-Raymond's grip on her loosens.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes shut. She tries so hard not to shake but she can feel it, burning fear thundering from the tips of her toes up to her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>"You are friends?"</p><p> </p><p>"Let her go," she gasps, "just let her go - <em> please </em> - just -"</p><p> </p><p>"More than friends," she hears behind her.</p><p> </p><p>Igor looks up. "<em>Oh</em>! <em> More than friends</em>,” he says in thick, clumsy English. “ <em> Znaci tako cemo? Lezbejke! Pa onda treba prvo malo da se poigramo, zar ne? </em>"</p><p> </p><p>Sasha licks his lips. Keeps his gun arm straight and steady.</p><p> </p><p>"You like fuck girls,” he nods and Eve’s not sure if it’s a warning or a request. </p><p> </p><p>Her underarms sting with sweat. Her bladder throbs. Her vision tunnels, red around the edges, speckled in the centre, blood pooling in her muscles to leave her dizzy, desperate to puke.</p><p> </p><p>He grins. “Do you want to show us? Before we finish." </p><p> </p><p>She swallows and swallows, the bile hot and sour in the back of her throat. She's never felt so rooted inside herself and so far removed at the same time. </p><p> </p><p>She's going to die. </p><p> </p><p>They both would, violated and alone, because of her lack of tactic, lack of cunning, lack of strength.  </p><p> </p><p>“No?” Sasha sighs, disappointed. He turns to look at the floor, nudging his boot to the crown of Villanelle’s head playfully. “Do <em> you </em> want to show us?”</p><p> </p><p>Igor leans back on Villanelle’s thighs. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle moves to sit but his hands are faster, pinning hers above her head until Sasha digs a shoe-tip into her crossed wrists.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Dodji da ti pomognem</em>,” Igor laughs again, yanking Villanelle’s shirt to expose her stomach, fingers hooking into the hem of her pants. His thumb presses into the line of her scar curiously.</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches Villanelle twist and recoil, the soles of her boots digging into the floor.</p><p> </p><p>She feels the coarse, revolting press of a crotch against her thighs.</p><p> </p><p>No eyes are on her.</p><p> </p><p>Just for a moment.</p><p> </p><p>Just for a second.</p><p> </p><p>Not-Raymond twitches behind her, slackening, expectant.</p><p> </p><p>She clenches her hands.</p><p> </p><p>Takes a deep breath to clear her head and stomach.</p><p> </p><p>Locks a knee and bends the other, burying her heel into the soft, forgiving flesh of a ballsack until the body behind her folds.</p><p> </p><p>She breaks away on shaky legs straight into Sasha’s knuckles, fist quick, hooked into the sharp plane of her cheekbone so her mouth snags on the edge of her teeth.</p><p> </p><p>She tastes copper and sweat. Her ears ring. She sees colour and then shapes, mostly Sasha’s, blurred, reaching to grab her before she hits the ground.</p><p> </p><p>There’s swearing.</p><p> </p><p>The bang of a bullet bouncing off a wall.</p><p> </p><p>The sounds of Russian and English and the language she doesn't recognise.</p><p> </p><p>They blur to make her head pound.</p><p> </p><p>She tries to stomp into Sasha’s ankle, to claw at whatever she can reach, to rip into hair he doesn’t have.</p><p> </p><p>She hears Villanelle shout.</p><p> </p><p>Another shot whistling past her ear. The drum of fist to flesh.</p><p> </p><p>She’s spun so Villanelle comes into view.</p><p> </p><p>She's never looked so scared, so unlike herself, it fractures through Eve and fills her with mind-numbing fear, buzzing with it when her temple comes flush with the barrel of a gun.</p><p> </p><p>Stillness then.</p><p> </p><p>Quiet.</p><p> </p><p>And then space to breathe.</p><p> </p><p>And the release from being held, the adrenaline rush that comes with panicked yelling and a slow-motion reel of blade through vessel and Igor’s thick, angry blood pulsing to empty all over Villanelle, the floor, Sasha’s fumbling hands that reach for him moments after he slumps.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle lays beneath the pile-up.</p><p> </p><p>Eve bolts for her.</p><p> </p><p>“Gun, Eve!”</p><p> </p><p>She spies the glock inches out of Villanelle’s reach, managing to kick it to her before collapsing to the floor moments after the bullet flies through Sasha’s head and snaps him at the waist.</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, <em> Jesus</em>, oh my fucking God -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grunts. “Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“- oh my <em> God </em> -” she chants over and over as she crawls to Villanelle, lying in curdled blood with her shirt beneath her chin and her trousers undone, “oh my God, <em> Oksana </em> -”</p><p> </p><p>She tries to keep her hands steady but they shake, vibrating at the wrists as they hurry to help Villanelle heave Igor’s body off, the movement jostling the knife and splitting his throat agape.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle kicks away the leg slung across her waist. She scrambles to fasten her trousers and stand in time to tackle twin-Raymond -</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Shit. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>- before he so much as touches them.</p><p> </p><p>Eve fumbles for the gun but there’s nothing left in her, no adrenaline, no will-power, limbs like jelly.</p><p> </p><p>She can't shoot.</p><p> </p><p>She can barely aim.</p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle pummel him to death, growling between fast, relentless swings at his face, crunching and thudding beneath her furious screams, fist in his hair, giving her leverage to grind his skull into the ground. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle kills him the way Eve hadn’t thought her capable of any more. She kills him with her bare hands, trance-like and feral, unstoppable even as Eve starts to cry again - how the fuck was she <em>crying</em> <em>again</em>? - palms pressed to her eyes to stem the tears and sweat.</p><p> </p><p>She kills him with a crack to his occiput, breath see-sawing as she does it, splattering pink matter and fluid all over the floor.</p><p> </p><p>When she’s done, she topples back, wheezy, eyes wild as they scan Eve across the room. She looks like she’s about to splinter, like she's not in control, like she’s hypnotised or revolted or <em> something</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve!”</p><p> </p><p>Eve nods dumbly.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve?”</p><p> </p><p>She nods again, she keeps nodding until her chest starts to convulse and she’s retching, rolling onto her side to vomit, leaving nothing but stabbing spasms and the gagging sound of her ribs trying to expectorate air.</p><p> </p><p>She coughs and coughs. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a small noise beside her.</p><p> </p><p>Her head lulls up. </p><p> </p><p>“You haven’t done that in a while,” Villanelle manages a half-smile.</p><p> </p><p>Tears flood her vision again. Tears of absolute relief and realisation.</p><p> </p><p>She wipes her mouth. “Are - are you okay?” </p><p> </p><p>“Are <em> you</em>?” Villanelle reaches for her.</p><p> </p><p>“Why -”</p><p> </p><p>“He was hurting you,” she says simply, as if that’s answer enough, as if that justified the way she'd so quickly and easily unleashed that familiar monster Eve had waited months on end for. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it did.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pats her down with hands so gentle, Eve forgets what they're covered in and what they've done, letting them check her methodically for bleeding masked by shock, feeling beneath her jacket and the drenched black of her t-shirt, touching the exposed skin of her neck where she’d been held.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, you’re not.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m okay,” she whispers. Villanelle cups her cheek, thumbing the swelling beneath her eye. </p><p> </p><p>She does the same right back, worrying at the large splats of foreign blood at Villanelle’s forehead, the bridge of her nose. The more she cleans, the more skin she reveals, pale, clammy, cool. The more Oksana returns to her, hurt and rattled, not like Rome, not steely or distant or hard.</p><p> </p><p>“You are going to bruise. Very badly."</p><p> </p><p>"Fun," Eve dead-pans. </p><p> </p><p>She feels around blindly past Villanelle's own fingers, prodding her bulging cheek, the skin taught and boggy to hold in the blood. She's thankful to still have her sight in-tact and all her teeth, double-checking with her tongue wedged between raw, metallic gums.  </p><p> </p><p>"We could've matched."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle laughs. "You're a little late."</p><p> </p><p>"Late to the ass-kicking party," she clarifies, and God, she's still shaking like a leaf, half-empty and half-full and shellshocked beyond belief.</p><p> </p><p>"You are still sexy."</p><p> </p><p>"Least of my concerns."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums, scooting to be closer. "Come here."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm fine."</p><p> </p><p>"You already said that. You're shaking."</p><p> </p><p>"No."</p><p> </p><p>"You're crying."</p><p> </p><p>When was she not? </p><p> </p><p>She quickly smears her face dry and sniffs, licking her scabbed lip, gutted to have Villanelle see her like this - incapacitated. <em> Dependent </em>.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm so sorry."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle opens her arms, not giving her a choice as they close around her, engulfing her until all she sees is nothing, and all she smells is Villanelle's perfume and gunpowder tangled in her hair and the crew-neck of her top.</p><p> </p><p>"You're in shock again, it's okay, it's normal."</p><p> </p><p>"None of this is normal."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle doesn't say anything, just continues to stroke patterns into the warm space between leather and cotton, her touch light and reassuring, aimless and so careful, Eve finds herself holding her breath not to have it end.</p><p> </p><p>She lifts her chin onto Villanelle's shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>The gun lays discarded beside them.</p><p> </p><p>"I really need to learn to use that."</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle turns into her, mouth pressed to her temple and then the crown of her head as she follows her line of vision.</p><p> </p><p>"Don't worry so much."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm worrying."</p><p> </p><p>She feels Villanelle shake with stifled laughter. "I will show you. Come on," she pulls back slowly, holding Eve by her shoulders to take one last, good look at her, eyes green the way they always got whenever she was being genuine, whenever she was promising.  </p><p> </p><p>"Let's get what we need, and get out, okay? We can do everything else tomorrow." </p><p> </p><p>Then she thumbs the soft scuffed leather of Eve's collar and cracks a joke about finding a good dry-cleaner because <em> blood is a bitch</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn't laugh.</p><p> </p><p>She stares at the gun. She stares at it and wonders how the hell no one thought to teach her the basics in her MI5 induction. </p><p> </p><p>And then she stares and hopes, hard, that by learning, handling it, acknowledging its power over her, she’ll end up like Villanelle, who grasps it so casually by the handle, locking the safety and letting it disappear behind the small of her back, safe and forgotten, for now.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Carlisle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>She's barely allowed to wallow after that.</p><p> </p><p>It feels like minutes - just long enough to catch her breath and find her bearings - before she’s being tugged to stand, ushered towards the computer where paper files lay strewn, rummaged through but open thanks to her.</p><p> </p><p>She hovers by the table's edge, watching the desktop turn back on, watching Villanelle log in effortlessly, watching her long, clever fingers dance across the keyboard as she picks up where she’d left off as if the last half hour hadn’t happened.</p><p> </p><p>She could do with a cigarette.</p><p> </p><p>She tells Villanelle.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle laughs. “Nice try.”</p><p> </p><p>“There's some in the glove box.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are very naughty.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m a wreck.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stops, looking up at her seriously, surveying her. She gives a soft, careful smile and pats the corner of the table.</p><p> </p><p>Eve perches there.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to call Moose?”</p><p> </p><p>She scrapes her hair back, palming the empty pockets of her trousers and jacket.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle realises, dialing until the phone starts to buzz beneath the table.</p><p> </p><p>“Very useful, Eve - leaving it here,” she teases, reaching under, then waving the phone in the air playfully.</p><p> </p><p>Eve swipes it. Her hands still shake, blood matted in her nailbeds. She stares and stares, her breathing magnified in her ears, the sound of shots fired and the hot, sticky squelch of blood beneath her boots.</p><p> </p><p>She feels nausea bob in her stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>She blinks. “Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“Moose.”</p><p> </p><p>“Moose - <em> Bear</em>,” she shakes her head, fumbling through the contacts. She feels Villanelle’s hand on her own and then Villanelle, wheeling herself between her open thighs.</p><p> </p><p>“Look at me.”</p><p> </p><p>She flinches. She’ll never use that phrase again. Doesn’t want to hear it for as long as she lives. </p><p> </p><p>“Eve, look at me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Posmotri na menya</em>,” she whispers, and Eve’s reminded of all the times Carolyn had insisted on how much Villanelle hated speaking Russian, how much she hated Russia and everything to do with Russia.</p><p> </p><p>And just how often Eve had heard her make reference to it, talk to her in it, in private, in secret, only with her.</p><p> </p><p>She swallows. Looks up from her lap.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s standing.</p><p> </p><p>For once they’re the same height. Eve actually has an inch to her advantage that perks her up a bit.</p><p> </p><p>She scoots to the edge of the desk, right into Villanelle’s hands.</p><p> </p><p>“What did I say? <em> Ya ne pozvolyu nichemu s toboj sluchit'sya, vidish? </em>I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Again</em>. Not going to let anything happen to me - again.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle laughs. “Good for your first time,” she tips in to leave a breath-soft kiss to the battered side of her face Eve hopes heals before she gets her hands on a mirror.</p><p> </p><p>“Sounds familiar.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are a natural at many things, Eve,” she wiggles her eyebrows, “some better than others. For example, you are better at sex than you are at fighting, sure, but, like you told me, practise makes perfect, huh?” she licks her lips, brushing their noses together before slumping back in the chair. “I’m proud of you. Come here.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve scoffs.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rolls her eyes. She gestures to her lap, chuckling, infuriatingly smug, when Eve finally succumbs and lowers herself there, stiff at first, then softening, defenseless to the warmth and sturdiness of Villanelle so close.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle rolls them into the desk so she can reach the mouse.</p><p> </p><p>“Look.”</p><p> </p><p>She stares up at the screen.</p><p> </p><p>There’s at least a dozen tabs open, various transactions, tax records or lack thereof, confidential emails, falsifications, scanned documents, drafts.</p><p> </p><p>“Recent expenses - see?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve tries to make sense of it all. </p><p> </p><p>“The Balmoral?”</p><p> </p><p>“Edinburgh,” Villanelle says.</p><p> </p><p>“Outgoings. Fine. But - standing orders - incoming Birmingham, outgoing - <em> here</em>,” she points to an email addressed to Eleonora Russo, “and here, look, same name,” she flicks back to the online account, “Russo,” she scrolls, “and Russo again. Russo, Russo, Russo. Russo’s the recipient.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle leans back in the chair.</p><p> </p><p>She keeps her hands around Eve’s waist, stroking her there thoughtfully, soothingly.</p><p> </p><p>It drains all the panic in one fell swoop, like water down a plug.</p><p> </p><p>Eve sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t fucking see that one coming.”</p><p> </p><p>“A woman,” Villanelle smacks her lips. “A woman keeper,” she says again, like she’s trying out the words, weighing them up in her head to see if they fit. She laughs. “That’s - very bad. Very sexy -”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oksana</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“- very bad,” she cringes, laughing harder when Eve warns her with a flick of her heel into the bony, sensitive ridge of her shin.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle takes her phone, quickly setting Bear up on loud-speaker  </p><p> </p><p>“Finally fancy chattin’ to me then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, I am well, thank you for asking, yes you should check your cholesterol, what -”</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle,” he wavers. Eve rolls her eyes at Villanelle’s satisfied grin.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you know about Eleonora Russo?”</p><p> </p><p>They listen to him chew. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle groans dramatically. “Less eating. More talking.”</p><p> </p><p>“Italian. It sounds Italian.”</p><p> </p><p>“Try harder.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s radio-silence for a few long minutes where Eve checks and re-checks her phone screen to make sure Bear hasn’t hung up.</p><p> </p><p>The only sound is that of furious keyboard-tapping and the occasional slurp of whatever he happens to be drinking.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s desperate for a coffee. Her nerves waver.</p><p> </p><p>“Nothin’ comin’ up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Anything similar?” she tries. “Eleonora - Rizzo? Ricci? Romano? I don’t fucking know -”</p><p> </p><p>“Rossi,” Bear coughs. “Eleonora Rossi. Registered to vote. Current residence, Aberdeen.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle clicks her tongue. “She likes to vote but what - she doesn’t like tax?”</p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Eve thinks back to Kenny’s office. To his corkboard and his newspaper clippings, to private oil rig scandals and sums of money vast enough to splash the front pages of The Times. Had it been Aberdeen? Scotland - if that?</p><p> </p><p>She couldn’t remember. Needle in a haystack.</p><p> </p><p>“Unlikely to be the same woman. Try the Balmoral.”</p><p> </p><p>“Try the - sorry, <em> what</em>? You want -”</p><p> </p><p>“Call The Balmoral. Check who’s staying there.”</p><p> </p><p>“What - wh - Eve are you out of your mind? They’re not just goin’ to cough up a full fuckin'-”</p><p> </p><p>“Hack it then, fuck it,” she snaps. She stares at the screen and the screen stares right back, unforgiving. </p><p> </p><p>“I sense you’re -”</p><p> </p><p>“Not having the best day, yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“Alrighty,” Bear says slowly, lingering for a second. “I will - get back to yous.”</p><p> </p><p>“Great.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nudges her.</p><p> </p><p>She makes a face.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be rude.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you seriously -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle kisses her softly. “Grumpy.”</p><p> </p><p>She pushes her hair back and digs her elbow into the desk. “Thanks. Sorry for - thank you. I mean it. There’s no way we could - without you here. And - I'm a bitch, I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“You two are fuckin’ useless.”</p><p> </p><p>“Careful -”</p><p> </p><p>“Jokin’,” he snorts. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll have what you need.”</p><p> </p><p>She’s about to apologise again, only to get rid of that gnawing, hollow feeling she’d learned to associate with guilt and acting like an asshole</p><p> </p><p>She’s about to, but the line goes dead and Villanelle latches onto her, squeezing her.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a shithead, <em> Oksana</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Hey</em>,” her eyes flash. “You can call me that. But only when you are nice.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m always nice.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pinches her just above the waist of her trousers, the other hand curling around to readjust and swing her legs over her lap. </p><p> </p><p>“You are <em> shitty </em> with a gun,” she says affectionately, “but you are very excellent with your bossy, talented mouth. Almost as good as me,” her lazy fingertips drum against the warm curve of her thigh.</p><p> </p><p>Eve smacks them away.</p><p> </p><p>“Do not objectify me.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle anchors her smile between her teeth. “Don’t play hard to get. I saved your life.”</p><p> </p><p>“And I saved yours,” Eve points out. “We’re even. I don’t owe you anything.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pouts. “Really? Nothing?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve shifts. She feels tired and playful and stressed and adored. She leans up in the seat, lifting so Villanelle sprawls beneath her, between her legs, head lulling against the edge of the backrest, jaw sharp and eyes soft.</p><p> </p><p>“You think a female keeper is sexy?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” Villanelle says so bluntly, Eve wobbles. “In a kinky way.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re into that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bad women?”</p><p> </p><p>“Powerful women.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle considers, letting her head fall to the side in thought. She takes so long mulling it over, Eve feels herself fidget. </p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve shrugs her eyebrows. She wasn’t powerful. Christ, she couldn’t even work a gun. Half the time she felt like she had two left feet.</p><p> </p><p>And yet, there Villanelle was, putty in her hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle splits into a self-righteous smile. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fine</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” she shrugs, moving to stand just as the phone buzzes with a message. She pivots, casual, disinterested in Villanelle who tries to coax more out of her, more jealousy or more playfulness or whatever she was after Eve makes a point to withhold.</p><p> </p><p>Bear:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Elena Rossi only match 4 Balmoral  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She lifts the screen so Villanelle can see.</p><p> </p><p>“Want to go to Edinburgh?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stares at her in mock-shock, mouth gaping sarcastically. “<em>Eve</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Ugh</em>, I know. Too coincidental, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you wanted to go back to London.”</p><p> </p><p>She tucks her phone into her jacket pocket and gets off the chair, trying hard not to stare at the mess around them, remnants of body smeared on the walls and floor, the heavy smell of sweat and flesh.</p><p> </p><p>“That was before you took me to the Lakes and cooked me breakfast for dinner.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods, pursing her mouth sheepishly. “Is that what we are calling it? Breakfast for dinner?”</p><p> </p><p>“Call it whatever you want. I’m in this to the end.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle swipes her jacket off the chair and takes her hand. “Dead weight.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck off.”</p><p> </p><p>Their fingers link. There’s something absurdly romantic about a blood-soaked, murderous hand-hold, something primal and catastrophic, devastatingly poetic in a two-wrongs-make-a-right sort of way. </p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t let go.</p><p> </p><p>Just holds tighter and makes sure she’s the one leading this time, stepping over limbs and puddles back out into the sun, back into normality, towards the safety of their van and the stretch of road that will lead them to what she hopes is the last leg of their trip.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Edinburgh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jealous Eve</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>The hotel room’s decadent.</p><p> </p><p>All plush carpet and mirrors for days, beautiful embossed wallpaper behind blue velvet curtains thick enough to keep warmth in and shut the rest of the world out.</p><p> </p><p>Eve feels totally pampered if a little spoiled to be staying here, but she knows it’s right up Villanelle’s street, watching her stroll around half-naked, basking in luxury way overdue, hand in the mini-fridge, long legs out.</p><p> </p><p>She’d not been privy to this yet – Villanelle, in lavender lingerie and gold, sporting a garter belt for Eve’s benefit probably more than her own, the lace of her bra sheer and intricate, dainty enough for Eve to see what’s beneath, strong enough to keep her breasts pushed up so Eve’s eyes bounce back and forth between them and Villanelle's freshly moisturised face.</p><p> </p><p>She shifts on the chaise lounge, looking.</p><p> </p><p>After Carlisle, she hadn’t quite managed to get the balance between soft and chastising she was usually so good at, poking Villanelle one minute, kissing her the next.</p><p> </p><p>The image of her, supine and unconscious on the floor had wreaked havoc, first on her appetite, late arrival hotel supper untouched, and then her sleep, her stomach burbling with remnants of fear and guilt as Villanelle snored lightly beside her.</p><p> </p><p>She’d been dying to say something, eyeing the elephant in the room – had it been one? – to touch Villanelle in some way, to erase Igor’s hard words, his hard, unmoving mountain of a body as it pinned her to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle had simply carried on, chin up like it’d been a morbid figment of Eve’s imagination, taking them for bottomless brunch and windy walks along Princes Street, the smell of barley and the drone of bagpipe trailing them on their way back to the Balmoral.</p><p> </p><p>The sense of adventure was back. The one Eve got a taste of in Bath and York, a reluctant passenger to Villanelle’s hunt for history, for food, for shopping, for things they’d begun to share, things Eve had started to look forward to and even revel in.</p><p> </p><p>And what better place to dive back into normality than Edinburgh.</p><p> </p><p>But beyond sharing a super-king, a croissant and an umbrella, briefly, there had been no touching. No intimacy. No unabashed cackle-laughter from Villanelle hopping and skipping from place to place, three steps ahead of Eve and her second-hand embarrassment. </p><p> </p><p>It seemed like they’d well and truly said goodbye to the blissful slice of paradise in the Lakes, the peace and intimacy that had come with it, the opposite of whatever this off-kilter, post-traumatic limbo was.</p><p> </p><p>Eve tugs the belt of her bathrobe closed and pushes back her hair.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle turns to her. The drink in her hand clinks beside the TV.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you – okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods slowly.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s chest squeezes. She stands.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods again, letting Eve step to her, watching with dark, dancing eyes as she does.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“I shouldn’t be?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stands taller than her, always powerful, always sturdy, elegant, and so naked, so very naked Eve stifles everything inside herself not to get distracted and take advantage.</p><p> </p><p>She lifts a hand, grazing the backs of her fingers under Villanelle’s chin.</p><p> </p><p>“I keep thinking about – Igor and – yesterday, it’s -”</p><p> </p><p>“In the past.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right – but -”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve had worse,” Villanelle purses her mouth closed, amusement hidden behind the greens of her irises. She looks down at herself, at her scar.</p><p> </p><p>Eve turns to stare at the curtains so she doesn’t have to see it, warm, frustrating breath sliding past her ear.</p><p> </p><p>“I hate myself for it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t,” Villanelle whispers, pressing her nose to Eve's temple, reeling her into a chaste kiss that still manages to feel like coming up for air.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle tugs at the cotton of her robe.</p><p> </p><p>“What happened, it’s -”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing we couldn't handle,” Villanelle says, voice hot and low, teetering between something sad and something sweet. Her fingers find their way beneath the belt, but Eve stops them slipping further.</p><p> </p><p>“Oksana -”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>She sighs. “You <em> would </em> tell me.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shifts against her.</p><p> </p><p>Her skin glows, unblemished – Eve’s thankful for it. She can’t say the same for herself – half a foundation bottle and her face looks lilac instead of blue.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell you - what? I tell you things all of the time. Funny, clever, sexy things, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve dodges the kiss aimed at the side of her neck.</p><p> </p><p>“If you weren’t okay. You’d tell me.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle slumps a little. Glances up to the ceiling in exasperation and then back down.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” she nods, “I’m fine. I’m perfect. I’m naked,” she sing-songs, “and you are not doing anything about it, so, maybe I could be better, but I’m okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re evading.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are psychoanalysing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Helping.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fishing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Worrying,” Eve admits, “I’m worrying about you. I’ve been worrying about you since we started -"</p><p> </p><p>“The sex? Eve, it’s been four days -”</p><p> </p><p>“- the roadtrip.”</p><p> </p><p>"Roadtrip,” Villanelle repeats, overly-serious. “Very chivalrous,” the word fractures in her mouth adorably, “but there are other, more important things to worry about, hmm?” she says slyly and Eve can’t help but know sex, if it happens, will be a scapegoat.</p><p> </p><p>She sucks her tongue over her teeth. She didn’t stand a chance.</p><p> </p><p>Probably for the best. Pushing Villanelle into a fowl mood was stupid - they had a job to do. Besides, she had plenty of time for that – eventually she’d break Villanelle’s heart with Konstantin, with bottled up questions about Anna, about Grizmet, all of them pushing to come out.</p><p> </p><p>She reaches for the make-up on the sideboard and manoeuvres Villanelle backwards, propping her onto the chaise like a child.</p><p> </p><p>“Let me help.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Really,</em>” Villanelle grimaces and Eve mounts her, holding her still so she can get to work.</p><p> </p><p>“I know how to put on lipstick, asshole.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mmm. Back to your normal self. My favourite.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dickhead.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes go wide, teasing. “See?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve doesn’t bother snapping back, irate but happy to sit and apply lipstick to Villanelle’s mouth, blush to the apple of her cheeks instead of ice-packs and arnica and long lines of steristrips.</p><p> </p><p>She cleans the curve of Villanelle’s bottom lip where the red falls out of line, and wonders what it’d be like if Villanelle kissed her now, tiny, heart-shaped lip stain gifts she wouldn't rush to wash off.</p><p> </p><p>She sinks deeper into Villanelle’s lap and takes a handful of hair, twisting it up to see.</p><p> </p><p>As much as she loved Villanelle’s neck, the sharp of her collarbones, the slant of her bare shoulders, nothing beat Villanelle’s hair down, spilled across the pillow, spilled between her legs just for her.</p><p> </p><p>“Wear it up.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes narrow devilishly. “Why?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve stares. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle knew why. She scoops it up obediently, keeping eye contact as she twists it through her fingers and around a gold pin, lip between her teeth.</p><p> </p><p>Eve's jaw throbs and then her thighs.</p><p> </p><p>“Pass me my shirt, please.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve reaches for the white button-up laid across the foot of the bed behind them. She helps Villanelle into it, the buttons snug inside their eyelets one by one, covering Villanelle inch by inch, first her pretty bra, then the ripples of her ribs and the dip of her navel.</p><p> </p><p>There’s something weirdly erotic about dressing. Eve wasn't an idiot - she liked undressing better, but this was – tender, a specific brand of nurture that catches her off-guard.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls Villanelle to stand, like a dance, letting her slip into her jacket and fitted trousers, tucking the shirt for her, pulling the zip and fastening the clasp, the coarse sound of metal teeth and the lull of Villanelle’s quickening breath quiet in the room.</p><p> </p><p>It almost feels like getting ready for war. She tries not to rush into imagining what might happen after. After, when her jealousy gets the better of her and Villanelle comes back to find her beside herself with lust and rage.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle steps to pull the dress off the hanger.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’d only tried it on once – in the Oxford fitting room, rushed and appalled, totally seduced by its simple cut, how comfortable but sexy it made her feel. How disappointed Villanelle had been not to watch her try it on. </p><p> </p><p>She shucks off her robe and tries not to gloat at the way Villanelle gapes, then pouts.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you have to put it on?”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs. “Want me to go naked to the bar?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle groans petulantly. She blows a raspberry, rolling the material together so Eve can slip her arms through.</p><p> </p><p>The dress falls, silky, glorious against her skin.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s hands follow, fixing the shoulder, lingering over her hair, caressing the curls and behind her ears, the curve of her jaw where it tickles.</p><p> </p><p>It makes her flutter.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes close and she smells Villanelle, hears her sigh contentedly.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>She hums.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>She opens her eyes. Villanelle’s looking at her and herself looks vulnerable and beautiful and smitten.</p><p> </p><p>“I think - I really -- this time -”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t.” Her heart pounds.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s face falls a little. Her throat twitches as she gulps.  “Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve's own feels tight, sore with emotion and panic, pulsing with recognition, a jumble of words. She takes a deep breath but Villanelle spins her, stepping behind her to loop arms around her waist and catch her eye in the mirror. </p><p> </p><p>“Beautiful," she praises gently.</p><p> </p><p>“You have to say that - you bought it.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hums, pleased. She rests her chin on Eve’s shoulder, gaze raking slowly across her bare arms, her exposed clavicle, her waist.</p><p> </p><p>Fingertips graze from her wrists and up, along her forearms and the insides of her elbows, tickling and teasing until Eve feels a longing shiver run through her. Then there are hands at her hips, cradling her over olive-green silk, down the tops of her thighs and back across her ass for a squeeze.</p><p> </p><p>It squeezes a small, reluctant laugh from her.</p><p> </p><p>“Perv.”</p><p> </p><p>“You have no idea,” Villanelle practically growls, snapping playfully at the soft part of her earlobe, satisfied only when Eve spins in her arms and presses her hand to her breastbone, holding her at length.</p><p> </p><p>“Not now.”</p><p> </p><p>“No? When?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not now,” Eve says, serious, something thick and uneasy settling inside her.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t want to do this.</p><p> </p><p>Didn't want to waste the intimacy the last few days had lacked, on rushed tenderness. </p><p> </p><p>Didn’t want to have Villanelle in a suit, sitting with someone else, engaging with someone else, flirting with someone else while she looked on, burning, even if it was for the sake of the job, hotel security cameras already tapped in for Bear to oversee.</p><p> </p><p>Didn’t want anyone else falling for it, falling for her, wanting her.</p><p> </p><p>Not now or ever.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle was irresistible - she knew best - and hers, finally.</p><p> </p><p>Eve didn’t share.</p><p> </p><p>She smooths her palm over the lapel of Villanelle’s fitted jacket, fingering the open shirt collar.</p><p> </p><p>The thought of another woman looking at her hits like a sucker-punch.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle sighs. “I have changed my mind. You should definitely take this off. Just for a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oksana.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle licks her lips, wiggling her eyebrows, going out of her way to pull Eve out of her funk, to distract her with a greedy hand on her breast and the other sneaking down to slip between her legs.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oksana</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes snap up. She sobers, letting her touch fall away. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her trousers, dragging Eve's eyes to the high tailored waist.</p><p> </p><p>She slouches as she stands in front of Eve, expectant, cocky.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s not sure if she wants to push her or fuck her for making her feel like this.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you didn’t use your sexuality for work.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs. “Most of my work involves men.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve huffs.</p><p> </p><p>The burbling flares, morphing into a physical ache she feels in the backs of her eyes and between her ribs. She could cry.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a woman, Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>Like that made a difference. Made it worse, actually.</p><p> </p><p>She steps back. Nods. Keeps nodding and blinking until the lump in her throat dissolves and the envy leaves her cold and tense.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pulls her hands out, swinging them at her sides.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re jealous.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not.” </p><p> </p><p>“You are jealous,” Villanelle laughs. She reaches for Eve’s hand but she jerks instinctively, proving her point. “It’s nice.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not - <em>nice</em>. It’s - fucking horrible. And I’m not - jealous - I’m just -”</p><p> </p><p>“Angry with me,” Villanelle says, soft, Eve-soft, a special brand of softness Eve had learned to associate with herself, in the same way Villanelle looked at her sometimes, often, more and more, like no one else existed. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>God, </em> no - not with you. Not after everything.”</p><p> </p><p>Another stab of guilt and then the desperate urge to wrap Villanelle up, to kiss her and comfort her and remind her she was safe, accepted, known .</p><p> </p><p>“With the situation.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to do it? You can do it, if you want, I will watch - here,” she pulls out her ear-piece to hand it over, and Eve laughs, shrill and a little nervy as she bats it away.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“You can. You look -” Villanelle lifts a hand, slow and gentle as she sinks it into her tussled hair, caressing again between her fingers, grazing the dangle of her earring, brushing over the awful little knot of feelings twisting inside her. She doesn’t finish her sentence, but the way she touches Eve is answer enough.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not going to -” she turns slightly out from Villanelle’s palm smoothing across her cheek. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck her?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve scoffs. </p><p> </p><p>“No. Do you want me to?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No</em>,” she snaps.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes crinkle, mouth tugging into a lop-sided smirk. “I was kidding.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve tries to pull away completely but Villanelle steps in again, so close their bodies touch, so close she can see the ink of Villanelle’s pupils blown wide with arousal, the high of her cheeks pink with want, the part of her hungry, lovely mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“You suck."</p><p> </p><p>“Only if you say please.”</p><p> </p><p>“Stop.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a face, tries to mimic her but Eve’s over it, lifting on her tiptoes to pull her in, fisting the collar to kiss her hard, teeth snagged on the plump of her lip, biting her there until it hurts and there’s a hiss and she remembers the way her lip had throbbed, blood pooling down her chin, inches from the lipstick-blade.</p><p> </p><p>There’s no blood now.</p><p> </p><p>Only a faint metallic taste and the shallow, breathy sound of Villanelle’s moan, right before her long fingers lift to check her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Eve curls her fist tighter against the shirt.</p><p> </p><p>“If she so much as touches you -”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s eyes flash and hood, amused. She knocks Eve back until the cool surface of the mirror presses into the bare nape of her neck. It sends a lightning bolt straight from her chest to her belly.</p><p> </p><p>She smells Villanelle again, her perfume and her soap, the starch of the shirt, her sweat.</p><p> </p><p>“Why would she?” Villanelle cocks her head, endearing and pleading, infuriating. "You think I would let her?”</p><p> </p><p>Eve had a whole list for that: why not? Villanelle was beautiful. Italian women were beautiful. Villanelle spoke Italian, no doubt Elena would find that charming. Villanelle was young and smart and looked fantastic in a suit.</p><p> </p><p>"You think I want anyone else to touch me after you? Why?"</p><p> </p><p>Eve rolls her eyes but she's sheepish, placated by a gentle kiss before Villanelle twists the top button of her collar closed and straightens her jacket in the mirror.</p><p> </p><p>“It won’t take long.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re having drinks with an older woman. It might.”</p><p> </p><p>“It won’t,” Villanelle adjusts the tiny ear-piece, checking the miniscule microphone stays hidden inside the fold of her jacket.</p><p> </p><p>Eve stashes the keycard in her purse, spritzes perfume and checks her hair.</p><p> </p><p>If she was going to watch Villanelle undercover, she was going to look hot, and make abundantly clear exactly what Villanelle was missing out on. </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle gives her a hungry, passing look before holding the door open.</p><p> </p><p>She steps through.</p><p> </p><p>“Meet you back here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t wait,” Villanelle coos, but despite her excited eyes, her genuine smile, Eve can't shake the vice-like, uneasy feeling that starts like an after-thought, and settles, fully bloomed and heavy, into doubt.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Occasionally @vracs1 on Twitter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Edinburgh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to the wonderful Anna @once_a_potato on Twitter for all her help with the Italian 💛 </p><p>Translations at the end.</p><p>Liked it? Let me know @vracs1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p> </p><p>Elena is beautiful.</p><p> </p><p>She’s Eve’s age, brunette, the most attractive woman at the hotel lounge by far, unsurprisingly, and Villanelle walks right up to her, confident but polite as she lingers beside the unoccupied leather stool.</p><p> </p><p>She’s barely been invited to sit and Eve already feels herself start to burn, irked by Eleonora’s slow smile gleaming through cigarette smoke - <em> who the fuck got to smoke inside any more? </em> - the red of her heart-shaped mouth to match Villanelle’s, the fact her blazer probably cost more than Eve’s entire savings, shimmering in tiny gold crystals stitched to her lapel.</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches her cross her long legs, the seam of her black cocktail dress shifting, stilettos velvet yellow.</p><p> </p><p>She hates it. All of it. She hates the easy European sophistication with which she moves, how she wears her age like a dark, delicious wine, magnetic and self-assured, immaculate.</p><p> </p><p>“Drinking alone. It’s not a crime in Scotland?”</p><p> </p><p>She goes by Ela tonight. </p><p> </p><p>She offers it without being asked and Villanelle panders to her, casual enough to be charming, but interested, genuinely so, eyes bright and alert the way Eve had been used to having directed at herself.</p><p> </p><p>She fists the pressed napkin beside her wine glass, gritting her teeth so they itch in her gums, holding back the insults she's itching to yell across the hall. </p><p> </p><p>Ela dominates - Eve doesn’t expect that.</p><p> </p><p>She commands the space, is the one to flag the waiter, to order Villanelle’s drink, to lean back in her chair and laugh first, hoarse and flattered by Villanelle’s playfulness.</p><p> </p><p>“Where are you from?”</p><p> </p><p>“Milan.”</p><p> </p><p>Of course.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a face - a face she used with Eve, a soft but comical face - the clink of ice in her glass marginally delayed in Eve’s ear-piece.</p><p> </p><p>“Long way to come for shitty weather.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I am no here for the weather.”</p><p> </p><p>“What are you here for?” Villanelle’s voice is rough and low, seductive and reminiscent of Rome. </p><p> </p><p>Eve feels a collision of arousal and betrayal. She wonders just how much of Villanelle really had been performance all along, how much of it still was. </p><p> </p><p>There was no glimpse of Oksana tonight. Villanelle was fantastically good at this.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Ela drawls. A lie. Bate. “Whiskey. The kindness of strangers.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle leans into the cool marble edge. “You don’t look like someone who relies on the kindness of strangers.”</p><p> </p><p>Ela licks her lips and finishes her cigarette, Villanelle's eyes tethered to her mouth. </p><p> </p><p>“Business,” she finally settles on.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah. Alone.”</p><p> </p><p>“You think I should not - do it alone? Because I am a woman.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle chuckles. </p><p> </p><p>Eve watches Ela’s red nails drum across the counter-top. She leans back again. Crosses and uncrosses her legs again. Stares at Villanelle - Eve would call it, defensively - but Villanelle bites, putty and flirtatious.</p><p> </p><p>“You should do whatever you want. I think women can do anything. Better than men. In most cases.”</p><p> </p><p>“In all cases.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” Villanelle nods and lets some of that facade slip, only for a second, long enough for Eve to latch onto, unacknowledged by Eleonora who fingers the rim of her whiskey glass in contemplation.</p><p> </p><p>“What is your name?”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle smirks and the conversation turns to Italian, words Eve can’t begin to understand, melodious and frustrating, a perfect distraction that lights up Eleonora’s stern face with surprise.</p><p> </p><p>At no point does Villanelle mention her name, or any other.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Ha importanza? Per stanotte.</em>”                           </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Forse no. È molto presuntuoso da parte tua.</em>" </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Non è presuntuoso è sfacciato</em>.”                   </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Sei molto sfrontata</em>.”           </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Sei molto bella. Io so cosa mi piace, di solito ottengo quello che voglio</em>.”          </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Voglio ancora da bere</em>.”            </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle orders this time, and Eve gives up on keeping track of the conversation, of trying to grasp at words like dandelion shoots in wind. </p><p> </p><p>Instead she sinks in her seat and tries not to down wine straight from the bottle when Villanelle’s the first to make physical contact, reaching to light Ela's second cigarette, then helping remove her jacket so it sits pretty on the back rest, the tiny beads flashing and catching in low light, stabbing through Eve’s concentration.</p><p> </p><p>“Oksana.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle flinches. Her eyes dart across the room as Ela takes a drag, exhales, makes a show of practically eye-fucking Villanelle while the butt burns and eats its way up.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop fucking around.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s fingers lift to brush against her ear, adjusting.</p><p> </p><p>Eve’s going to kill her.</p><p> </p><p>Ela stubs the cigarette out in the crystal tray between them. “What should I call you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever you want.”</p><p> </p><p>Ela rolls her eyes. “Do this things pass with women in Edinburgh, in your experience?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Villanelle grins cockily. </p><p> </p><p>“Where did you learn Italian?”</p><p> </p><p>“Business,” she bites her lip and Ela laughs again - she has a laugh that carries, not garish, just deep, like coffee tar or ganache.</p><p> </p><p>“Clever girl.”</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Potresti insegnarmi, imparo molto in fretta</em>." </p><p>       </p><p>"<em>Non ho alcun dubbio</em>."                  </p><p> </p><p>Briefly, the waiter comes to obscure Eve’s view, fussing over her with a dinner menu and offers of late night coffee and dessert. </p><p> </p><p>She finds herself shooing him off, too invested and too appalled to look at anything but the scene in front of her.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle flirts with Ela like they’d met a hundred times. She’s familiar, kind, attentive, incredibly one-tracked but in a petulant, endearing way Eve had noticed in London with Carolyn, and imagined, at an earlier time, with Anna.</p><p> </p><p>She’s pissed not to have ever been a part of something like this. They’d never gone through that normal, delicate balance of dating - learning and teasing and seducing each other instead of hurting and hunting and pulling until they’d snapped.</p><p> </p><p>She’d finally gotten - in the last fortnight - dates she'd been so against at first, hand-holding and camping and doing it all ass-backward, yet it still niggled - the wish to have met Villanelle in some bar three years ago, under normal circumstances, after normal day-jobs, and let herself get completely swept off her feet.</p><p> </p><p>A meet-cute, one hot night, then late breakfast and a see-you-round.</p><p> </p><p>But it wouldn't have been real.</p><p> </p><p>And they wouldn't have gotten any of this - not that Eve particularly liked tonight.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle finishes her drink and wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb carefully.</p><p> </p><p>Ela helps. It’s weirdly maternal. Erotic. Identical to the way Eve had done it earlier.</p><p> </p><p>She squirms, smacking her thigh into the underside of the table. The pain stings, perfect. She bites the inside of her cheek for good measure.</p><p> </p><p>“What will your husband say?”</p><p> </p><p>Ela inspects the back of her fingers and the large ring nestled there. She raises a dark, arched brow. Her pecan eyes shine. </p><p> </p><p>“He is a modern man.”</p><p> </p><p>“What will he say when you practise Italian with me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that what you call it?”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you call it?”</p><p> </p><p>Ela slips her packet of cigarettes - Eve's dying for one - inside her purse, glancing to her phone and then back to Villanelle.</p><p> </p><p>Eve checks her own. Midnight. She’d let this shit go on for almost two hours.</p><p> </p><p>“Wrap it up.”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle stretches in her seat. Undoes the button of her collar and cocks her head to the side.</p><p> </p><p>“Finish your drink,” she says in plain English, whispered into the olive skin of Ela’s neck. “And let me take you to bed.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not like <em> that </em> - are you fucking kid -”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Aspetta qui</em>,” Ela manages - it’s the first time Eve hears her voice betray her - and then Villanelle’s left by the bar, left with the remnants of Ela’s whiskey and Eve’s furious eyes, lobbing knives across the room.</p><p> </p><p>“What the <em> fuck. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle shrugs. “<em>Sorry</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Eve watches her slip a capsule from the pocket of her jacket, the bar staff turned to tend to other patrons as she twists its contents into the drink, then casually summons a waiter for the bill.</p><p> </p><p>Ela returns with her jacket back on and fresh lipstick. She takes the last of her whiskey, practically sipping from Villanelle’s hand before she realises the tab has been closed, a small, coy smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>She takes Villanelle’s fingers, lifting her from the stool. </p><p> </p><p>They match in height. They look good, side by side, Ela curvaceous and worldly in her evening dress, and Villanelle, alcohol flushed high on her cheeks, hand in her pockets, so handsome Eve hates herself for it.</p><p> </p><p>Ela traces her finger against Villanelle’s jaw, pinching her chin to look at her.</p><p> </p><p>“You will stay the night,” the mic picks up, not a request but a statement, quiet but demanding, leaving no room for second thought. </p><p> </p><p>Eve can just about picture Villanelle being into this, bossed around like the brat she could often be, under the heel of an older woman - but only in bed. It makes her feel sick to think of her doing it with a stranger, with anyone else, ever.</p><p> </p><p>She swallows around a dry tongue.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods, turns into the touch and lets Ela caress her mouth, even as Eve tries to catch her eye, even as she barks warnings into the earpiece and Ela leans to get closer, malleable and hard to resist, but already a little unsteady.</p><p> </p><p>They’re barely out the French glass doors before Eve’s chucking bills across her table, ignorant to the waiter who tries to catch up to her and settle the change, ignorant to onlookers and the rest of the bar staff who stare as she yanks her purse to her chest and shoulders her way past flummoxed guests, seeing only red, and thinking only of the dozens of ways this night would get worse.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"Ha importanza? Per stanotte.” - Does it matter? For tonight.</p><p>"Forse no. È molto presuntuoso da parte tua." - Maybe not. It is very presumptuous of you.</p><p>"Non è presuntuoso è sfacciato.” - Not presumptuous. Suggestive.</p><p>“Sei molto sfrontata.” - You are very forward.</p><p>"Sei molto bella. Io so cosa mi piace, di solito ottengo quello che voglio.” - You are very beautiful. I know what I like. I usually get what I want.</p><p>"Voglio ancora da bere.” - I want another drink.</p><p>"Potresti insegnarmi, imparo molto in fretta." - You can teach me. I am a quick study.</p><p>"Non ho alcun dubbio." - I have no doubt.</p><p>"Aspetta qui." - Wait here.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Edinburgh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Do NOT read at work I swear to God.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Part 2 soon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve’s out of her mind by the time Villanelle gets back.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Left stewing on her own, she’s already thrown off her shoes and blazer, made a mess of her belongings and finished a miniature single malt when Villanelle strolls in.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She toes off her heels but lingers by the door like a naughty teenager. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Her hair’s down, shirt untucked, jacket slung across her forearm then discarded at her feet.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She looks - guilty, Eve would call it, if she could feel it. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She looks guilty and sheepish and apologetic, though Eve ignores all three, sniffing as she bolts up and heads straight for the ensuite. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Nothing happened.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She spins.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle shrugs. As if that’s enough. As if it automatically undoes the crawling nightmare that had been the last few hours, the one that left Eve feeling nothing but inadequate, nothing but jealous; played, overlooked, forgotten about.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Watching Villanelle go about seducing another woman as if she were preparing a meal or picking an outfit - with absolute ease and self-indulgence - was a kick in the face, work or no work. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She’s not sure what she’d expected, but reality hit like a suckerpunch.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The plan had always seemed so nebulous, a vague agreement to find Elena, to go after her, to get their hands on something concrete -</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle produces a crocodile-skin purse and out of it what looks like a driving license and some bank cards.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She scoffs at how little she suddenly cares. About any of it.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Nothing happened,” Villanelle says again, softer this time, setting the purse on top of the mini bar. She sinks her hands in the pockets of her trousers and cracks a lop-sided, persuasive smile. “Eve -”<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t. I don’t want it.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t want what?”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Any of it. I don’t care. I don’t want to know.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The ensuite’s right there, the door handle at her fingertips.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She could twist and be on the other side in seconds. She pictures the most melodramatic version of herself she can think of: sitting naked on the ceramic shower floor, crying, with her knees beneath her chin and her arms around herself.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle steps to her anyway.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“It looks like you might care. A lot. I told you, I’m not with them when I’m -”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Stop it.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Really?” Villanelle says. Has the decency to chuckle. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve finds herself wanting a full-blown fight.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“She was comatose, Eve, you saw -”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“What - how you looked at her?”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“<em> What</em>?”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Touched her?” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“I had -”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“You didn’t <em> have </em> to do anything. It’s a <em> job,</em> Villanelle, not a free pass to get off to the first bimbo to -” she waves her arms around, growling, God, she was <em> so fucking mad</em>, she could implode, “- compliment your fucking Italian.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Eve, I think you’re - overreacting a bit,” she tries reaching out but Eve bats her away, folds arms across her chest and steps back so the handle jabs the side of her thigh.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Don’t</em>.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle looks like she’s dying to. She really does look helpless, lost - probably for show, Eve thinks bitterly - scouring the room for something that might help change her mind. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Flailing without flailing. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve almost feels bad.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You are not fair to be mad for something I didn't do. We got what we needed. There is an Aberdeen address on the license. It is the same name - Eleonora Rossi. And she is a keeper. I didn’t touch her -”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve scoffs so hard her throat hurts.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"- not the way you think.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“But you wanted to.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle’s face falls. “No.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Looked that way to me.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“It is a job. I am good at my job. I can make people think I -” Villanelle starts but she’s already dug herself a hole, already started prodding Eve’s sore spots, those raw, insecure, second-guessing spots they’d both worked so hard to mend the last fortnight, maybe longer.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve’s eyes sting. The words sting too, right in her chest where it starts to feel tight and achy.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Not with you. It’s different - with you, I - you know it’s different - Eve - ”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Do I?” she cracks, "Is it? <em> How</em>? The way you looked at her Villanelle - God, it -” she breathes, catching herself before she cracks. “It <em> hurt</em>,” she snaps and it’s the last thing she plans to say, pushing through the bathroom door but held at the threshold by Villanelle’s hand around her wrist.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Why? I don’t want her. Why would I? Eve,” she tugs, forcing her to turn but not to look up, eyes glued to the carpet. “It’s you. Just you. No one else.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Something in Villanelle’s voice rings so soft, so desperate and fragile, Eve fills with a weird mix of arousal and irritation.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“There hasn’t been -” Villanelle shakes her head, “not since - Pamela, and - Maria but -” she rolls her eyes as if they're trivial, when all Eve wants to scream is <em> who? </em> and start an entirely different argument. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She wrenches her hand free.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“You wanted a powerful woman? Well - you got one! Happy?” she swallows, “Did it feel good - upgrading from UNIQLO to Prada? What is it - the heels? The dress. No - wait - her <em> tits</em>. She had good tits. For her age. It’s the tits, right? Hot, Italian milf treating you like a lost little puppy -”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Eve - ”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She’s on a hurtling roll, so help her if Villanelle so much as blinks.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“- with her perfect legs and stupid yellow fucking - Manolos -”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Louboutins,” Villanelle adds quietly.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She growls. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Shoves the door frame.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Growls again until her eyes sting.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>And starts on a tirade until she can't stop, until she's hurtling towards self-sabotage, barely keeping track of any of the words coming out of her mouth, one, big, mess spat out into the perfumed hotel room air, barraging past Villanelle to put distance between them, past the chaise lounge sat listening awkwardly like a child of divorce, past her shoes and Villanelle's jacket on the floor, the empty whiskey bottle, the untouched bed. She keeps going until she's breathless and knackered, until she slowly starts to run out of steam and air and the only thing she recognises she’s made a conscious decision to say is - </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Take off your clothes.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle straightens. “What?”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She blinks. There. She said it. She must’ve meant it, for it to come out so confident like that. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“The shirt. Take it off.” Her pulse picks up again, gushing in her ears.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She has no idea what the fuck she’s doing.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle tucks her hair behind her ear. “Eve, I think we should - don't you want to - talk - before -”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Take off the shirt, Oksana.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She watches Villanelle’s throat bob. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She looks good in white. Business-casual. Masculine but alluring with her hair down, tangled in her collar.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve takes a few fast, steadying breaths, watching Villanelle linger over the buttons. She tells her, <em> do it,</em> with her eyes and watches them snap one by one until the material finally parts and there’s a strip of skin, Villanelle’s stomach, the intricate clasp of her bra.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Off.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The shirt drops.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle stands there. Eve expects her to pose, to cock a hip or tilt her head, to beckon her seductively, but she just stands, expectant, waiting to be instructed.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She thrums all over. She takes the few steps left to close the gap, pressing Villanelle into the locked front door with a firm palm to the flat of her chest.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>It's thrilling - watching the most terrifying, beautiful woman she knows succumb.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle’s gaze shines, dark but unfocused, overwhelmed as it flits from her eyes to her mouth, Villanelle's own parted and already panting. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve wants to kiss her. Doesn’t.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She drops to her knees and unsnaps the clasp on Villanelle’s high waist, fingering the button and then the zip more smoothly than she thought herself capable of, the carpet rough against her knees, Villanelle's skin warm and heady.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She inhales.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle's hands drop to her shoulders.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She licks her lips and kisses just beneath her navel, feeling the muscles twitch and flutter. She kisses more firmly, stringing a trail up to the scar until everything tenses, until Villanelle arches away from the wall to feel more, breasts pressed into her hands. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The nails at her nape scratch, urging her to suck and suck until the scar blooms, pink like a flower.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She lingers over it, brimming with apology and tenderness, that feeling that always left her tired and sad instead of angry and cold. She slips her hands from Villanelle's bra to her waist to hold her still, breathing in until the skin's warm and dewy.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The silence deafens.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle's scent is loud, bright with perfume and soap, dark with musk beneath the lavender of her underwear. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve spends long minutes on the floor, contemplating ravishing her just like this, on her knees, worshiping her like some self-obsessed, infuriating deity, first with her hands and then lips until all she can hear is her own name from Villanelle's clever, stupid mouth.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The best revenge. Quick. Good enough, but barely.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>And then there's Ela’s whiskey-laugh and olive hands and it's like a switch-flip, from simmer to roar, and Eve finds herself yanking Villanelle's trousers down, watching her stumble out of them with a soft, petulant whine that sounds both playful and put-on.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Her fingers itch to rip off the rest. Why not? She could - ruin perfectly good, four-hundred-pound lingerie with a tug of her hand.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She looks up but Villanelle's already looking back, sneaking a hand into her dark hair to tug her closer.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Kiss me again."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"I decide."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Sure you do."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve pinches the back of her knee where tendon meets muscle, buckling her long enough to undo the stockings from their holds.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She swallows and stands, inches from Villanelle's bewildered face.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Is this what you want?"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Slow down," Villanelle murmurs.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Someone in charge," Eve raises her eyebrows, gaze steady as she reaches up, the front of the bra easy and quick to twist open, to show the goose bumps there, the skin Eve's desperate to taste but doesn't look at. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Eve -"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"You want me to boss you around?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"You already do," Villanelle laughs, breathless as the straps flick away and the lace joins the trousers. "You already are. You don't have to pretend."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Of course she was pretending. This was full-blown improv, touch-and-go, <em> literally </em> - she'd never come close to anything like this and the only consolation was the fact that she was still fully clothed and Villanelle wasn't. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>So she lies -</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"This isn't me pretending,"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>- and kisses Villanelle, teeth to the side of her throat and curve of her earlobe, hand clasped around her neck, the sound of her gasp loud and beautiful.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"You want me to do this stuff to you?" she rasps, squeezing gently. Her own throat dries out, voice thin with apprehension, even as Villanelle's head thuds back against the door and her eyes prove just how much she wants exactly this.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve doesn't have it in her. Not to hurt her. Not to push her, not to do anything more than graze a thumb over her pulse point and the underside of her chin. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pushes back - a silent <em> more </em>- but she retreats at the slightest hint of pressure, bravado gone.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She steps back and nods towards the bed.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Show me how you do it."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle stares. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"What you said in Paris."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There's recognition then, a faint blush racing up Villanelle's collarbones to her cheeks.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Get on the bed Oksana."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The blush turns to crimson and Villanelle's eyes turn glazed, almost black.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve can't believe how good this feels already.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>There's something about seeing Villanelle take direction so freely, she almost forgets to feel embarrassed. She liked this - having Oksana back, soft, playful but obedient. It gave her a sense of power, however false, and satisfaction to know Villanelle would do anything for her.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The thought of Ela doing this instead, slices through.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The thought of Anna doing it, taking something that was never hers to take - not like it was Eve's now, given eagerly by a fully-consenting adult - sends another sharp pang.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She watches Villanelle move onto the huge bed and feels sympathy, and then overwhelming affection at the way she makes a show of crawling, then tosses herself back into the mountain of pillows, crossing and uncrossing her legs theatrically.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Good."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I can be good."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve folds her arms across her chest. "I very much doubt that."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pouts. "I can."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Be good then." <em> Oh God, honestly, what the fuck was she doing? </em></p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle stretches, lazy and disinterested like a cat, but it's obvious how she really feels in the way her thighs press together, the way her teeth snag on her lip to keep the sounds in check. She hooks her thumbs inside the lace and lifts her hips.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve's mouth waters.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Take them off."<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>If she ever did anything like this, she knows it'd be nothing but a train-wreck - underwear twisted around her ankles, kicked off in a caricature of sensuality, a silly, clumsy pose to make up for it.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle does it and it's one, flawless slide-and-flick, her pale thighs gold in the honey-light, toned and beautiful where her calves tighten, toes painted and sat poised in sheets.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"These?" she gestures to the stockings.<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>"No."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"No," Villanelle smiles knowingly.<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>"Show me," Eve whispers. There's no bite left, no command, just a gentle, pleading sort of desperation to see Villanelle open for her, vulnerable and wanting, forgetful of Ela and Maria and any woman before her.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>None of them could do what she had planned.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle gives a loaded smile and lifts a hand to her hair, combing to expose her neck, the delicate bones of her throat stretching as her head tilts back with a moan.<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>She's barely touched herself but the sound sends a jolt through Eve, curling her palms into fists.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She watches Villanelle's body twist and curve beneath her uncommitted hands: light fingertips between her breasts, brushing against nipples - Villanelle groans and the sound echoes out of Eve - flat against the plane of her stomach, achingly slow past her navel, then lower.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Good girl."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Okay they were actually doing this.  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle hums in approval.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve watches her sigh at the first touch.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Her thighs fall open to show Eve the full effect of her words - a gorgeous, glistening mess, ruined candied apple under sticky fingers - the validation Eve's been craving all night.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She imagines the pressure on herself, the painstakingly loose circles Villanelle makes - once, twice - before dipping lower and back up. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"That's good. Do that."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle manages a smile. Her fingers shine, long, patient. She traces downward.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Inside. You're doing so good."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle follows, hiccuping at the feeling. She's rougher with herself, more abrupt, less foreplay. She fucks instead of making love and it's both narcotic and too-quick.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve's knees shake.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Slower. Enjoy it."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle ruts into her palm. "I am," she laughs again, hoarse, and fucks herself deeper.<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>"Tell me -" Eve's voice cracks. </p><p> </p><p>Her vision turns water-colour. She feels weightless.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"- tell me what you think about."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Sex with you, Eve," Villanelle says so flatly, it makes her snort.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Really," she snaps but she's so turned on her legs wobble, the want inside her verging on pain. "What else?"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Fucking you. Your tits. Your mouth."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Fucking Christ.  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She nods. She's going to pass out. The door presses hard and harsh to prop her up.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Feeling you on me. Making you wet. Come here." </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"No," she shakes her head, "keep talking."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She's <em> this </em>close to coming.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Let me fuck you."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She needed that. Wanted to be fucked so hard she forgot what day it was. Wanted to return the favour so desperately Villanelle wouldn't so much as look at another woman ever again. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle changes tack. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"I can be so good. For you. Come to bed, baby."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The word settles, jarring and lovely, and Eve wants to both hear it and savour it for a time when she isn't feeling so many different things all at once.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Not yet."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle whines again, pouts, frowns, tries a myriad of faces before slipping back in, two fingers this time, deep and quick and still, waiting for Eve's next move.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve's stomach plummets.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Fuck."<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"<em>Fuck,</em>" she hisses, her dress too-tight, too-hot.<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>She wanted to be naked, <em> now,</em> wanted to be under Villanelle's tongue, wanted nothing but full-body contact, and her hands and mouth occupied.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Does it feel good?"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle nods and nods, eyes closed as she hits a particularly good spot that makes her whole body shudder. "N-not as good as you - <em> oh </em> -"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve moans. It barely takes the edge off. She's never going to get over this.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Eve, I'm so close."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Don't stop."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"I will come soon -"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Okay no - <em> wait </em>-" </p><p> </p><p>She didn't want <em> that</em>, she'd barely made it to the bed.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle whimpers, sliding her fingers out.  She looks like she's about to cry, hair mussed, chest heaving.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve could devour her whole.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Stop," Villanelle sulks, frazzled for the first time ever, "don't stop. You are being confusing. You're <em> mean.</em>"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"I can't -" she whispers, "- think straight."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She wanted both. Wanted Villanelle to make herself come, wanted to be the one to do it, wanted the pleasure of watching it play out instead of being swept away in the dizzying undercurrent of being involved.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Sure," Villanelle frowns, breathless. "So come here. I want to taste you."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve shakes her head. This felt like war. This felt like a last-man-standing kind of fight and her legs wouldn't put up for much longer. "Don't - don't stop."<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>Villanelle gives her a dubious little smile.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Are you sure?"<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>"I'm - <em> yes.</em> Just - keep going."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle starts again, neater circles this time for her enjoyment, waiting to be guided step-by-step.<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>"Like this?"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Yeah - yes - just like that's - perfect."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle licks her lips and doubles her efforts. "You like this."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"<em>Yes </em> - God - keep going, Oksana - don't fucking stop."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle groans weakly.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She was perfect like this - on the brink of orgasm with her jaw slack, and hazy, hooded eyes, drunk on Eve and her dirty mouth. She lifts her free hand, kneading her breasts roughly then sneaking higher to her throat. Her eyes shut, completely trusting and exposed, and Eve feels it undo her, door thudding in its frame as she hikes up her dress and drops her hand between her legs.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>There's a glimmer of relief. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She rubs loosely, swollen and soaked, friction evading her as Villanelle catches on, opening her eyes to pin her with a stare that makes her whole body quake.<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>The pleasure builds fast, the rhythm of her hips sloppy, knocking back against the door, toes curled into carpet, enamoured with the way Villanelle's thighs twitch up in response, the way Villanelle starts to make those soft noises, the ones she liked so fucking much -</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"I can't wait much more - Eve -- I want you - to do it - I need it -"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> There it was. </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"- no one else," she pushes back inside herself, "<em>blyat </em> -- just you. Just you - Eve - <em> Eve </em>-" she moans and starts to tremble like she's holding back, but not for long, and Eve finds herself abandoning her own needs in favour of the bed, racing to Villanelle on shaky legs to get her hands on the first thing she can reach.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"I'm here," she gasps, pulling Villanelle's wrist away, "I'm right here, shh -"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle bucks into her, eyes wild and glistening, leg quick to sling across her hip and pull her closer.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"It's okay, I've got you," she swallows. "I promise you're going to come so hard, okay? Can you do that for me?"</p><p> </p><p><br/><br/>And before Villanelle can say a word, Eve's already found her answer, slipping her fingers into scorching heat, Villanelle's body spread and shivering long before she's said <em> yes.</em></p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>@vracs1 on Twitter</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Edinburgh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>End on a high.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>NSFW Part 2.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>//<br/><br/><br/></p><p>She kisses along the red marks Villanelle's bra had left, kisses to her shoulder and ribs where the indents are, scooting to scatter them without breaking contact, Villanelle's thighs clenched around her wrist.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"You feel so good. You're so good for me."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle makes a fractured little sound, craning for more.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"You're so wet."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She'd done that, with hardly a touch, and Villanelle was already falling apart, clawing at her to get more contact, to get more of her mouth and more of her words.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Want to see?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She had no idea where all this was coming from but watching Villanelle respond to her made it so easy, made her brain work overtime to say things she hadn't even fantasized about.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve feels fingers fist into the material of her dress. She lifts her hand.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Open."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle bucks up into her, lids heavy with anticipation as she opens her mouth.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She sucks gently.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve feels it thud in her clit, the tickly sensation morphing into pleasure, Villanelle's tongue soft but meticulous as she moves past the first knuckle.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle moans.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Good?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She nods, releasing with a pop.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve feels a hand in her hair, jerking her into a kiss. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle tasted incredible. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve already knew that but it was nice to be reminded, the inside of her mouth sharp from alcohol, hot and sweet and tangy and lax when she pushes three fingers back inside and makes her cry out.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Still, she wanted to check properly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She rocks slowly, watching every little nuanced response, making sure she feels every coil and spasm when Villanelle starts to beg - quiet <em>please</em> <em>Eve</em>s and <em>harder</em>s - and she feels like doing the exact opposite, dropping open-mouthed kisses over Villanelle's neck and across her shoulder, down between her breasts and past her hips.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Eve -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Shh."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I can't -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She pushes Villanelle's knees up to her chest, spreading her wide open. The garter clips sit askew, unattached. She thinks about rolling the stockings off, then glances up at Villanelle, barely clothed and looking like the woman of her dirtiest dreams, and realises she likes it much better this way.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She licks her lips. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She was so turned on by this, she could barely control herself.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"You can. You will," she nods, bowing to nip against a thigh, biting a little harder until Villanelle squeals. "You're mine."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Fuck - Eve, I -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"You heard me," she says gently, soothing the bite with the flat of her tongue, licking a stripe all the way up, "you're mine. Say it."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle pushes against the back of her neck. "Eve -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Say it."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I'm - oh - <em> bozhe </em>-"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve knew this was hard. Villanelle belonged to no one. She possessed so many things and gave so little away. But she'd already given herself - when she protected Eve first and foremost, when she spoke about Konstantin, when she looked at Eve in bed with big, bottomless eyes and whispered streams and streams of Russian while Eve pretended to be asleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Good girl. So close. Tell me. Say it, Oksana, and it's all over."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Y-yours - I'm yours - fuck - Eve, I'm yours - please, just -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She lets Villanelle guide her fully down, watching her shake with relief.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It takes a minute.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A minute of fast, focused attention Villanelle had taught her so well, of fingers inside and a hand across her stomach, of Villanelle's hips straining off the bed to get as much of her mouth as possible. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The minute builds and crescendos and turns into sounds: of Villanelle, of the sighing bed, of wet friction. And pressure: of Villanelle's thighs around her head, her digging fingertips in the sheets, the flutter of her. And heat bursting into aftershocks to leave her boneless and half-awake, heels perched on Eve's shoulders to keep contact.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Blyat </em> -" </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The mattress bounces with her weight.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve laughs. Wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Her dress sticks to her. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The air clears, no longer fraught with tension or resentment or that green, icky feeling that had weighed her down so hard.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She watches Villanelle's chin wobble, forearm slung across her eyes.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Hey."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle swallows, chasing her breath.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In hindsight, Eve realises she's left hickeys all over her chest and thighs. They look good there. She doesn't feel the slightest bit guilty. She crawls up the bed and watches Villanelle try to compose herself. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Ranshe ya ne chuvstvovala nichego podobnogo…dazhe s Anna</em>."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She catches the end, the name distant and out of place after everything. She half expects Villanelle to be angry with her, or upset -</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"What?" </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>- but Villanelle pulls her arm away and turns, eyes wet with something beautiful but unnameable, impossible to look away from. She doesn't say a word - not that she needs to. She just sighs and lets Eve look back with wonder and pride at what she'd done.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"What was that?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve shrugs. "What was what?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle clicks her tongue. "Don't get cocky."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She was cocky. How could she not be? She was the only one still clothed and she'd just given Villanelle the best orgasm of her life. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle points out the former.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"You had your shot."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Did </em> I?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. Not my fault you're too -" she gestures.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Horny."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She laughs. “Greedy."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I haven't done it like that since -" Villanelle frowns, pensive. "Ever."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Something in Eve shifts to finally make her feel calm. Happy. She tugs the tie from her wrist and scoops her hair in a loose bun before settling back down.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Did you -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Come?" Villanelle jokes and earns herself a smack. "...did I like it?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She nods. She already knew the answer. Aftercare was sexy though, or so she'd read. Not like Niko ever gave her a chance to try it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Did I like it," Villanelle hums. Pretends to think until Eve jabs her, pushing her onto her back. "Sure," she shrugs, "I think."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"You think," she pokes harder, climbing over Villanelle's waist to sit on her hips. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The skirt of her dress covers Villanelle only from waist-down. She grabs handfuls of her tits, because she can. "Which part are you not sure about?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle chuckles. Her hips crane up for more. "No. I am very sure about all of it."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"The part where you have a raging praise kink?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"You -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Or the part where you like being told exactly what to do?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Careful," Villanelle says, sharp, catching her around the waist. "Maybe I let you talk to me like that in bed -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Uh - you let me talk to you like that <em> all the time</em>."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Sure, only because I -" </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve holds her breath. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle catches herself. Her jaw works to chew up the words, throat tight to swallow them back. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p>Eve moves her hands from her chest to her hips, where Villanelle’s sit.  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Because you like to give me a false sense of security?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"A big ego - an even bigger ego," Villanelle adds quietly but it's half-hearted, lacking banter and full of affection. "Come here.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Come here.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She links their fingers, lifting Villanelle’s hands to pin them to the pillow, smiling when Villanelle’s eyes flash.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“You don’t want your turn?”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"I kind of like being on top.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Really."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely - I’m a natural,” she licks her lips, grinding down. The pressure reminds her just how ruined her underwear is, how annoying her dress is, how much she wants Villanelle to ignore both and fuck her right through them.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She stares down. Villanelle looks unreal like this, basking in the after-glow, hair fanned out across the pillow, wearing nothing but the garter belt and a smitten smile on her face. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>They’re so close, Eve inhales Villanelle’s breath like it’s her own. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle lifts to sneak a kiss - unimaginably soft where Eve hopes for hard - tentative and exploratory, thankful. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>It hits her then - a surge of emotion, like a warm wave, like an inflated balloon, like a fast dance, giddy and fizzing all over. It loses itself in the kiss and in Villanelle’s moan.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She eases her grip and lets Villanelle prop herself up on her elbows.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“I meant it.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“What I said in Rome.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“You say a lot of things.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle brushes her hair behind her shoulder and sits fully upright, wrapping her arms around Eve’s waist to keep her close.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“When you said - <em> you don’t know what that is</em>,” she says in a perfect East-coast accent.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve looks down between them, down at her lap, up to Villanelle’s searching eyes and down again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I do. I know what it is.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle -”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“I know what it is,” Villanelle’s voice quivers. The sound eats Eve alive, gnawing at her chest like a wound.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“I know you do.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“I feel it. For you. All of the time. It hurts.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“It’s supposed to hurt.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Not like this.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She wants to say something blunt like<em> you’re going soft </em> or <em> is this the best pillow-talk you’ve got? </em> but all she says is <em> show me</em>, grabbing the back of Villanelle’s head to kiss her properly, full of care and reassurance and paused desire.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She pulls her dress up. Villanelle goes for the zipper, sliding and slipping the flat of her hand beneath the material, right between her shoulder blades, down to the small of her back, wandering.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Help me take it off.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle kisses a bare shoulder, uncovers the other so the dress pools around Eve's waist. She doesn’t comment on the fact there’s no bra, the fact Eve’s already rutting, hips rocking back and forth, head tipped to leave room for kisses and Villanelle’s mouth latching onto a nipple.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She feels herself get impossibly wetter.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“<em>Shit </em> -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle glances up. Strokes lightly inside her thigh. Licks across to the other nipple and sucks so hard her ears ring.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The image of herself in the mirror above the bed turns hazy. She barely brings herself to look - she’s never looked worse, or better, depending on how she saw it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Niko never made her look like this. Like she was on the verge of an epiphany, sat in someone’s lap, ten years younger, reckless and ecstatically happy. She grabs the carved headboard and jolts herself harder into Villanelle’s mouth, cradling her head to get more.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Mm-<em> close</em>.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Good,” Villanelle mumbles.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Won’t - take long - <em> oh</em>,” she hisses when Villanelle's teeth graze along a sensitive spot, then sink into her bottom lip.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“No it won’t,” Villanelle whispers and bucks her off, tossing her back on the mattress to leave her breathless and the room spinning. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She liked being on top. She liked this too - the full weight of Villanelle on her, the warm softness of her, the safety of being so close and yet so totally out of control.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck me.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle shakes her head, pulling the dress off then crawling up her legs with ticklish kisses inside her ankle and calf, the side of her knee, her thighs and finally the rise of her pelvis, tugging the underwear off before she gets to squirm too much.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>It kills her not to have any barrier there, nothing to get friction from, no pressure, just air and expectation for long, dragging minutes, Villanelle’s hungry mouth waiting to dip down and taste her. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Finally.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It's slow.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Not enough.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Almost enough.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>And then it’s over - <em> why why why? </em> - and Villanelle’s pulling her up, spinning her front to back, on her knees so they both face the mirror, so she feels breasts press into her spine and Villanelle’s fingers trail to squeeze a nipple, to stroke between her legs and knead her ass.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She watches it play out right in front of her. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The mirror’s not long enough to fall below her waist but whatever she can see does the trick: she's covered in lipstick marks, her mouth smeared in red, hair wild, head dropped back onto Villanelle’s shoulder.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle's muscles flex to bring her pleasure, the feel of her strong and firm inside her, unforgivingly focused, eyes trained on her in the mirror, teeth sunk into her neck.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Do you feel that?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Yes </em> - <em> Vill </em> -”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>There’s stretch, and then sting, and then the dizzying ache of being filled completely, of having that rough spot hit over and over so intensely it makes her well up.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“How does it feel?”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Good - <em> hurts </em> - so fucking good.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“That’s how you make me feel,” Villanelle whispers in her ear, breath hot and quick, lips smooth along her jaw and temple. “Look.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve swallows. She looks. She’s gasping. She's delirious. She feels like she might fall forward but Villanelle holds her together, fucking her into place.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The thrusts come hard - snappy enough to make the bed creak, to make her grip falter.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She feels a floating kiss against her shoulder-blade and sobs with surprise.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle kisses her again. Lavishes her scarred skin with her blazing mouth, so careful and different to anything else she's feeling, achingly soft, and then softer when Villanelle's face buries into the back of her hair and nuzzles.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I would never hurt you again."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve moans. She has the presence to reach back and lift Villanelle's head, to watch her in the mirror and realise just how sincere those words are.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She hated being hurt - emotionally, most of all. Emotional hurt rang so deep, it left her high and dry. Angry, but mostly empty, rattling like a church bell.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Physically though - this, was fast and rough and grounding, the freedom to be greedy and crave the intensity only razor-sharp sex could bring.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She'd never experienced anything like it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"A little," she sighs. Her face burns.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She takes Villanelle's free hand and guides it from its place on the headboard to her neck. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Maybe a little."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"A little," Villanelle whispers. Her fingertips glide against her throat, against her pulse to make her arch.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She clenches around Villanelle's other hand. She was on the cusp. She could come just from the fantasy of it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And then Villanelle holds her a little firmer beneath her jaw, squeezing but barely, breathing calmly into her ear so she knows everything's okay, she's safe.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"A little more," she pants out. She's soaking. She feels her thighs slick with sweat and her breath peeter out and her vision blur and adrenaline start to kick in when Villanelle thrusts harder.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"You're sure -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Vill</em>."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle tightens her hold. Eve can see her fight with herself in the mirror, eyes alert, looking back like a hawk for any sign of panic or change of heart.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She lets it engulf her. The tip-toe between pleasure and pain, the precarious cliff-edge of consciousness, dulling her brain so she's only aware of Villanelle's touch, her reassuring words, the zap of fear at the possibility she might black out.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>It feels like she's outside of herself looking in, hovering in a limbo of Villanelle hurting her and loving her, like she'd always done. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Bliss.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"This is what you wanted to try?" Villanelle checks in.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Earlier, when she'd changed her mind. The thought of choking Villanelle made her sick to her stomach. Not after what they'd been through. Not after Raymond.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The act of <em> being </em> choked -</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>"Yes."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grinds into her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She gasps for air, coasting on the hilltop of her orgasm.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And then Villanelle lets go and blood comes rushing back, washing away the black holes.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She feels arms wrap around her before she topples, kisses snuck behind her ear, on the notch of her spine. Villanelle whispers, "Don't ever ask me to do that again," and leans around to kiss her properly.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She's shuddering. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Villanelle holds her.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She feels feverish, overwhelmed by the whiplash of opposites - gentle and hard and all-consuming and tentative, Villanelle-meets-Oksana she can't quite get her grip on.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Okay?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She holds onto Villanelle's forearms to steady herself.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I think I might pass out."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Not until after you come," Villanelle warns, a half-joke and a promise, jostling the bed as her hands come away and she falls back onto the mattress. "Come here."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve turns to stare at her - she looks comfortable as anything, self-assured and boisterous, hands behind her head, waiting.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She gets on all fours and crawls to stretch out - quick respite, maybe? - and then her wrists are being tugged and Villanelle's giving her that devastating look.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Up." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve stalls.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"On me. Up here."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She shouldn't. Couldn't. Hadn't. <em> Ever</em>. There was no way - </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle laughs. "Sit on your throne, Eve."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Fuck off."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The ache hadn't left, hadn't even simmered to an echo. Her head told her to tap out, but the rest of her - the rest of her raged with hormones and frustration and a feral need to have it all end, it was driving her insane.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Take what you want," Villanelle's voice drops, dark and thick like syrup. It tosses all her nerves aside, spurring her on to scoot. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She hovers gingerly above Villanelle's face.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I can't do this."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Can't - or won't?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Can't," she hiccups. Villanelle's hands press into her ass and tug her down before she can protest. She jerks.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Oksana </em> -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's moan comes out muffled, somewhere between her clit and lower. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She can't bring herself to look, side-tracked by the press of Villanelle's lips and tongue, of her chin, of her fast, beating breath and the steady hand that guides her back and forth. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And then she can, and suddenly she's transfixed by Villanelle's hazel eyes reading her every move, staring up the length of her, smiling and unsmiling but full of smug joy when she falls forward on her outstretched palms, pulling Villanelle's fingers deeper. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle hasn't even curled them, hasn't given her as much pressure as before, not as good a rhythm, but Eve feels it wind her up - the fact she's doing this, that someone's letting her - no, begging her to - do it, that Villanelle's having the time of her life, lying in submission yet still managing to make her world burn.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Her thighs tremble.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>For a moment she thinks Villanelle can't breathe. She tries shifting away but Villanelle clamps down, locking her in.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"This is -" she holds off - she's holding off - she's going to make it last - she can wait - "<em> insane</em>."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She starts to bubble over.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods against her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The motion tips her, toppling her like a spilled ceramic bowl.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She plummets.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She soars and then plummets. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She free-falls.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And then she shatters.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The orgasm drenches through her, a hot, violent blast of feeling, of <em> everything</em>, all rolled into one fatal demise, neat, dark ball curling out like a supernova until she can't feel anything at all, not her fingers or the bed or the sweat down her back, just Villanelle gripping on to drain her of any sentience she had left.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Stop - I can't -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Too much, then. Sore. Perfect. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She thinks Villanelle might keep her prisoner - forcing her to seconds - but she's released, helped off before Villanelle wipes her mouth and gives her a wolfish smile. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em> Petite-mort</em>. The phrase pops up again, flashing like a neon sign. She was here but she wasn't. She was under-water, floating, starved of oxygen yet utterly consumed. Villanelle had killed her so many times, what was once more? </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She drags herself over to the head of the bed, summoning whatever strength she has left to reach for the bedside drawer. She doesn't feel angry any more, not even an ounce. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Just - <em> alive</em>. And a little bit delicate.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"What are you doing?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She manages to get her hands on a lighter. Drops a cigarette on the floor. Snaps another and finally shoves one in her mouth. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Don't even -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Eve!"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Nope," she mumbles, lighting. The nicotine hits. She watches Villanelle scramble to stop her but it's too late, the smoke's already risen, tangled in perfume and sex, tangled in her lungs where the swelling feelings sit. She keeps her arm outstretched, just out of reach. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle whines beside her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Last one. One last one. I can't <em> not </em> have one. You ruined me."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It seems good enough for Villanelle, who rids herself of her remaining clothes and curls up against her back, sliding over to be big spoon, mouth pressed to her shoulder, lines slotting together. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I think I blacked out for a hot minute."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Yes. That is a big problem I have." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Making women pass out?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Uh-huh. Too much of a good thing. It is a blessing and a curse, Eve."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She snorts. "I wouldn't exactly call it a curse."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle reaches an arm around, resting a hand on her tits. It's just the right type of Villanelle-playful not to be suggestive. Eve couldn't come again if someone paid her to do it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There's silence then, comfortable, blanket-warm.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She smokes and Villanelle dozes. They melt until they're a pile of tired limbs and she starts to wonder whether Villanelle might be asleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She stubs her cigarette out on the packet and sinks into her pillow.</p><p> </p><p>Villanelle burrows into her. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The hand squeezes. Twice. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"<em>Honk-honk</em>."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She smacks it away. She's grinning. Villanelle can't see it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Are you still mad?" </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She reaches for Villanelle's fingers, pulling them back to her chest.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I was never mad."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle fidgets behind her. "You fury-fucked me."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>That makes her laugh, loud, right from the belly. "I'm going to use that."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Are you still jealous?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She swallows. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The clock on the wall ticks. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Finally, she hums.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Yes." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She feels Villanelle nod into her, holding her a little tighter.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I don't think I'll ever not be jealous. It's - fine. Whatever. Normal."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Sure. Sexy, too."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve turns, careful not to break the circle of Villanelle's arms. She expects a teasing grin, an eyebrow wiggle, but Villanelle kisses her instead, light and slow, a kiss for the sake of kissing. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She breathes it in. It's romantic. Soul-searching. Disgustingly cliche and exactly what she needs.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Are you going to fury-fuck me again?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Let's not pretend like it wasn't the other way around.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle’s face changes, like she’s hurt or offended, like Eve misunderstood her completely.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I just - wanted you to feel it. To feel <em> everything</em>.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve rubs her cheek into the pillow. “I do. Of course I do. God, I feel you, <em> literally </em> all the time, even when you’re not there.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t mean for it to come out so sentimental but there it was, out in the open for Villanelle to take however she wanted.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle nods again. She looks so serious. She mulls it over. Licks her lips and kisses her again, thumbing her chin and the curve of her mouth. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When the kiss ends, Eve feels slightly less silly. She feels better for it, better still when Villanelle sinks a hand in her hair and pulls her half-on top to hold her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You think Ela wanted to fury-fuck me?”  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Her head snaps up so fast, the room spins. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You think the floor’s going to be comfortable for you?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle grins. “Don’t be dramatic. There is a chaise lounge - I will sleep there if you don't want me.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She tries to wriggle away but Villanelle squeezes her, pacifies her, leg wrapped around her calf, as if to say, <em> I’m joking, you’re so funny when you’re mad.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I think -” she sighs. “You know what I think?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You think too much.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Honestly? I think she wouldn’t stand a chance.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle perks up. “In a fight?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Mhmm.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle touches the bruised side of her face, the concealer long-dissolved by sweat.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“With you?” she teases.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve shrugs her chin. “Yeah. I’m small - but I’m scrappy.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The laugh Villanelle lets out rumbles through them both.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Not after I finish with you."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eve grunts. "What - you're going to sex-train me?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"No," Villanelle stretches, spreading herself out beneath her, lazy and guardless. "I will normal train you - very serious. Very dangerous."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She snorts. "Okay, Mr Miyagi."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Villanelle's face lights up. It reminds Eve to watch movies together some day, stupid, PG ones just so she can see Villanelle in her element, to see her how Konstantin never got to.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She rolls away to give Villanelle space, but they still touch, warmth and scent cocooned between them.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"First I am going to sleep. Then, tomorrow, you can fury-fuck me again -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I - "</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"- and then I will find you a very nice, quiet place to practise your wax-on wax-off, okay?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She knew Villanelle was partly kidding. But part of her wasn't.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And as she pulls the covers over them, sated and bone-tired, nestled in Villanelle's side, she knows the one person who could ever truly hurt her, wouldn't. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Not again. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Not unless she wanted it. And not unless she asked.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks to everyone for reading, it's been an absolute blast to write and I'm so grateful for the comments/kudos/etc. I'm just sorry to have to bring this one to a premature end! I'm not one to leave things unfinished but it do be that way sometimes.<br/>This fandom's been very kind to me, especially here, and the past 18 months have been super fun and super humbling - never dreamed I'd write one fic, let alone several! Thanks to the kids who read from the start, the smut's for y'all.<br/>Stay safe, happy and healthy and enjoy s4 whenever it comes! ✌</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>